


wow i can get sexual too

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 181,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4521471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storybrooke High’s promoting their semi-annual safe sex drive and Ruby never misses an opportunity like this. Emma just wishes she would. It’d save her the headache of Ruby trying to turn her life into a movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if i die and go to hell real soon (it will appear to me as this room)

**Author's Note:**

> modern captain duckling highschool au semi-inspired by the movie “the to do list.” this was supposed to be only a one-shot but things have gotten out of hand as you can see. as i’ve written this in celebration of [cssmutfest](http://csfanfictions.tumblr.com/post/125770500937/its-getting-hot-in-here-and-were-not-talking), know that this is hella explicit and will continue to be so.
> 
>  **added edit:** starting in chapter 19 is the sequel, "The Worst is Over."

“Be prepared,” Ruby sang into Emma’s ear as they passed the gymnasium and Storybrooke’s Semi-Annual Safe Sex Saves Souls.

Emma can never resist making the sss-ing noise. Hissing it in Ruby’s face, she nearly misses when Marian sidles up to her other elbow. She wishes she did because Marian may be as good-natured as they come but her and Ruby together?

It takes less than a minute for Emma to enter her own personal hell.

“Emma’s always prepared,” Ruby teases. “Aren’t you, Emma?”

She’d already had the sex talk from her mother this week as she gets it every week that the SSSSSSSS is in session. _SSSSSSSSnore_.

“Principal Blanchard takes her job seriously,” Marian says sagely with a nod of her head to illustrate just _how_ understanding she is of the struggles of Emma’s mother.

Ruby, on the other hand…

“As seriously as I take Emma’s sex life.”

Emma doesn’t just step into that one. She falls right into it and doesn’t even put out a hand to break her fall - rather, she stuffs both feet and both hands in her mouth instead when she says, “What sex life?”

Ruby snaps her fingers. From where he was leaning against his locker, Jefferson jumps up, eyes red like he’s been sleeping - or high - for far too long. Emma nods at him when he waves his hand and elbows Ruby in the side.

Her friend doesn’t even seem to care. “Exactly. This is a serious problem, Emma. You can’t go off to college knowing nothing.”

“I know _everything_ , even stuff you don’t know.” Quietly, she whispers, “Do _you_ know how much lube you need to properly insert anal beads without damage? I can tell you.”

“Please - oh my god did she really - please don’t,” Marian says, hand covering her face but Emma can see her laughing anyway.

It’s not particularly concerning. Ruby’s glinting smile is what concerns her. She’s a deviant, in mind, body, spirit, although her reputation is more talk than anything else - more Ruby’s talk than anything else and that one time her and Jefferson were caught in the Chem lab.

Ruby’s a deviant and it’s simply too easy for Emma to fall under her influence. She can shrug off most of Ruby’s teasing but she always rises to meet a challenge and her friend knows it.

(Plus, Emma’s not exactly as pure as the driven snow.)

“Speaking of anal beads,” Ruby says too loudly if the redness of Aurora’s face is anything to go by. Emma mouths a "sorry" at Aurora and takes Ruby by the elbow to drag her down the next empty hall towards the library Belle’s proctoring at. At least they can talk in there without worry of destroying anyone else’s sanity. Just Ruby’s girlfriend, which is a predictable byproduct of being Ruby’s girlfriend.

Marian pushes open the door and Emma nearly smacks Ruby and herself against Killian as he exits the room.

“Terrorizing Belle again?” Ruby asks, slipping out of Emma’s arm to step booted toe to heeled toe with him and glare directly into his eyes.

Killian rakes a hand over his face and Emma instinctively stops herself from making the same motion. He notices, darts his gaze to her for a beat too long because Ruby’s fingers reach out to grab the collar of his leather jacket. “Eyes on me, Captain. Step off my girlfriend.”

“Belle can fight her own battles, you know," he drawls, bored smile rounding off his words.

“Of course, she can, but she’s authorized me to fight this one for her. She’s trying to get into Stanford, can’t have assault on her record.”

_I can_ , Ruby doesn’t add with one red nail lifting from his jacket and poised towards his throat. Right for the jugular. Emma doesn’t like stepping in between Ruby and her prey, but this is rather ridiculous and she could do better than going to jail for assault of Killian Jones of all people.

“Ruby, he isn’t worth it,” Emma says and takes Ruby’s hand away from his collar. Ruby doesn’t fight Emma - a miracle considering her well-founded dislike of Killian - but she does continue to glare like she might just jump out of Emma’s grip, hands be damned and just tear his throat out with her teeth.

“Hey, Swan, I’m worth all that and more,” he argues.

She looks at him. He gives her a winning grin. Emma doesn’t return it.

Arrogance melting somewhat, he switches back to Ruby, “I’ve apologized -”

“Insincerely.”

“- and Belle has decided to allow me to help her with her cataloguing project in recompense.”

Ruby makes lets out a humph. “I’ve yet to see remorse.”

“You won’t. I’m saving that for her.”

He steps aside to allow Belle to wiggle past him. The brunette crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Ruby. “Your authorization has been unauthorized. You can’t kill him. I need him.”

Killian opens his mouth. Belle taps her foot and pushes him farther aside so she can step into Ruby’s space. Placing a kiss on Ruby’s cheek, she says, “He’s an excellent cataloguer.” She steps away and announces, “My library is a quiet and safe space and expect it to remain so. Killian, be here Thursday. Emma, Marian, Ruby, are you coming in?”

It’s a perfect lecturer in the making's dismissal.

Marian is the first one to respond. She saves her quiet for pointless feuds, apparently, because she whips through the door, Belle in tow, already discussing the latest additions to the fairytale collection and some adventure novels she’s been thinking of requesting.

“Hey!” Ruby follows after them, heels clicking hard as she speeds to catch up.

Which leaves Emma to endure Killian’s stare. There's a bruise around his eye that still hasn't faded from his last match. He notices her gaze and touches the injury.

She should go in, but this encounter isn’t going to make Ruby just forget about whatever it is she’d wanted to say about Emma’s sex life. Emma reddens at the thought, but doesn’t look away from Killian while his hand drops back down. He’ll just think it’s about him.

“Sorry about that,” he says. Not entirely uncharacteristic, the apology, but unusual given that he nearly lost his life. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave and disturb you and your friends no further.”

“Feeling chivalrous?” Emma teases.

She doesn’t know why.

Oh yeah, she does. She’s trying to avoid entering the library. Ruby is already waving from her seat at the table. Emma can see her over Killian’s shoulder, trying to catch Emma's eye.

“A bit, yeah. I do try to do the gentlemanly thing from time to time,” he says.

“And what would be these times? Year to year? Decade to decade?”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m going to leave before your words become sharp enough to actually cut. I’ll see you later, Lady Swan.”

Ah, of course, the inevitable throwback to her minor part in the play. If she has to hear him call her that one more time…

“You won’t.”

He will. They have English and French together. Back to back in the afternoon.

Chuckling, he turns away from her, starts his walk down the hall. Saunter, actually. Waving a hand back at her, he calls, “Oh, I love the way you lie.”

Emma watches him leave and then lets out a sigh of her own, dragging her feet through the doorway and the whole distance to Ruby’s table.

“You’d rather talk to him than hear what I have to say?” Ruby asks when Emma slumps down in the chair across from her. Ruby grins. “Emma, I’m only trying to save you from yourself.”

“Alright, spill it. Let’s get this over with,” Emma says, leaning across the table. She looks around the small library, triple checks that it’s just them and there’s no one huddled between the bookshelves, waiting to record an exclusive interview with Ruby about her plan for Emma's body.

It sounds awful when she says it like that. She eyes her friend.

“We’re going to make you a list,” Ruby says. “And you’re going to work your way through it.”

Emma leans so far over the table, her head hits the top. She bangs it again for good measure and then lifts up on her chin to stare at Ruby. Her green eyes crinkle at the sides as she smiles at Emma, too sweet of a smile for this attempt to force Emma’s life into that damned movie.

“I watched that movie _with_ you, Ruby. I’m not making a -” She lifts her hands up to make the finger quotes. "To-do list.”

Ruby’s smile is too much, too wide, too excited. She leans over the table, takes Emma’s hands and folds her fingers in hers. Rocking them back and forth, she says, “But remember? You already made one.”

Emma didn’t. She does now.

“You’re going to hell,” she swears into Ruby’s face.

“Well, we both are, but at least we’ll go there together.”

“Friends to the skin flaying end,” Emma says. She narrows her eyes at her friend. They’re almost nose to nose. “You have it on your phone, don’t you?”

“Google Keep is a fantastic tool.”

They both lift up and separate at the same time. Leaning back in her chair, Ruby digs into her pocket to pull out her phone.

“You don’t have to recite it,” Emma says before Ruby can open her mouth. “Just text it over.”

She pulls out her own phone. Ruby’s fast. The text is already there when Emma unlocks her screen. The list is ten items long and Ruby even gave it a cute little pointing finger into circling finger emoticon pair at the top. Cute being the word that Emma would totally replace with something else if she wasn’t saving her energy for fighting other battles.

It takes only a quick glance for Emma to want to check out of this entire conversation. “I’m not having sex just to finish out this list, you know?”

Ruby nods. “I know. It’s just something to keep in mind when you do find yourself a dude or a lady to screw into the floor.”

Emma shakes her head, laughing. “What a visual.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emma glances back down at the list before her. Something to keep in mind, alright.

  1.     cunnilingus (because we gotta keep it classy)
  2.     fingering (wash your hands, their hands - keep it safe)
  3.     blowjobs (if you’re feeling it)
  4.     69 (so you both can feel it)
  5.     masturbation (i hope this is like a free card or something, Emma)
  6.     clothed (hot as hell - literally)
  7.     in public (not like _public_ )
  8.     handjobs (quick fun and if he isn’t cool you can rip it off)
  9.     riding (lady or dude appropriate)
  10.     anal (please don’t do this)



“I like the side comments,” Emma says. “Helpful.”

Ruby's a good friend. She gives Emma a half-smile and blinks at her in understanding. “I try," she says. _Conversation over_ , she means.

Emma breathes and realizes her hand is burning on her phone. She drops it on the table. “Now be a little more helpful and send me the assignments for Prof. Hopper’s and Ingrid’s classes.”

-

“Told you I’d see you later, Lady Swan.”

Killian waves at her, beckoning her over to the desk next to him and Emma freezes in her tracks - literally, metaphorically, spiritually. Emma and Ruby never had _this_ in mind when Ruby told her to keep the list in mind. Ruby definitely not. She has much better taste. Emma, no, nope, nada. She hadn’t even thought of anyone _for_ it until this moment.

But it’s like the “Lady Swan” brings her back to that “lady or dude appropriate” - “screw into the floor” mindset and it’s just a terrible collusion of events.

Killian’s smile is dipping. He opens his mouth, a hint of tongue - _01\. cunnilingus (because we gotta keep it classy_.) Definitely keeping it classy to think about the rugby captain going down on you when you should be finding your seat in English.

The challenge eats away at her, which is a poor choice of words considering the fact that he’s speaking again and her eyes are on his lips and she’s sure he’s flirting because his words are just a little too drawn out, even though she can’t hear them over her own pressing...thoughts.

The challenge. Sit next to him and pretend she didn’t just associate him with her “to-do list,” or avoid him and pique his interest.

Emma shakes her head and walks over to him. “I have a headache, Jones, so if you could keep it to a minimum?”

He shrugs. “Need a Tylenol?”

She’d have just accepted his offer if he hadn’t decided to drum his fingers against his desk and draw her attention to the ridiculous ornate rings on his fingers - and his fingers - and of course the list burning a hole in her pocket through her overheated phone.

His fingers are clean.

Emma’s going to slay Ruby and herself so they can take that journey down to hell a little sooner than expected. While she’s cursing herself, Killian reaches into his backpack and takes out his bottle of Tylenol and a water bottle.

She takes them both, grateful that he can’t read her goddamn mind or her expression, either. He likes to think he can read everyone, but Emma’s interest in him has never gone beyond mild disinterest. He can’t guess that she’s thinking about what his mouth looks like wrapped around the water bottle she has in her mouth.

“Thanks,” she says, trying not to choke.

“Anytime.”

Anywhere. Public. ( _Not like **public.**_ )

-

Emma doesn’t think about it too much - it’s not something to be given analysis. Her mind latched onto him and he’s attractive, it makes sense that her sex-flooded brain (with special thanks to Ruby) would place him directly in the line of her newfound fantasies.

It’s logical. It’s natural.

When her headache fades, the anxiety fades as well and she’s able to be herself around him again. Even smacks him with her French book without thinking too much about other kinds of smacking.

At least not so much.

And not once does she get caught looking at his mouth so she counts it a success when class ends and all he does is say his usual goodbye to “Lady Swan” and jogs off to his rugby practice.

Emma doesn’t even watch his butt with anything beyond “he has one.”

All in all, it could be worse. She could’ve run into Victor first.

Or Prof. Hopper.

-

It’s the worst party Emma’s ever been to and that’s because she stuck at it with no phone, having lost hers somewhere she can’t fathom, while Ruby and Belle coo at each other on the corner couch. At least with her phone she could play some mindless games until the battery died. She doesn’t begrudge her friends taking the opportunity to make out like nobody’s watching, but she’s so bored that for a moment, taking the blunt from Jefferson seems like a good idea.

Emma has never smoked a blunt in her life and she isn’t going to start now, especially when Jefferson’s blowing smoke rings in her face. Pot smoker level: too high to even know that there are fucks to give, and Emma’s already sick of the smell.

She’s sick of this whole party, but she still has a beer to finish and she isn’t going to let the girl who brought it to her win in her “Are you sure you can handle all of that? You _did_ have 2 shots.”

Emma had 3 shots in fact and a whole bag of Lays dipped in tequila (disgusting.) She can handle a beer.

She can also handle the screen door, but she’s still grateful when Killian draws it open and takes her hand so she can step outside.

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

Not a major one. Not even a problem that he would concern himself with considering he doesn’t even know it is one - the problem that only exists in Emma’s intoxicated head.

The one where she can’t stop staring at his bottom lip. There’s a bruise just beneath it, on the patch of skin. A hit from practice probably, though she couldn’t be sure unless she asks.

Emma lifts her eyes reluctantly and then takes a long drag of her beer so it doesn’t look like she’s lost in his eyes. She isn’t. They’re blue, they’re pretty, she’s always liked them but they’re not anything special when he’s not trying to bore a hole into her with them.

Instead of taking a seat on the porch or the empty lawn chair, he asks, “Hey, wanna take a walk with me, Emma?”

He looks nervous. That’s why Emma decides to nod at him if she’s being honest. Overconfident, bordering on illegally flirtatious Killian she can shoot down in a second. It’s a little harder when he’s being sincere. A little harder when she’s tipsy, and harder than that when she can’t get that stupid list out of her head and his growing scruff is looking more and more attractive by the second.

She’s going to do something stupid. Emma knows this immediately, the moment she places her empty bottle on the ground and takes his hand and lets him lead her down the three steps.

“Victor has a treehouse,” he says conversationally. He’s not slurring but up close, now she can see his eyes are a little glassy.

“Is that where we’re going?”

He shrugs and keeps walking. “If you want, but ah, I have to tell you something first.”

“Please, keep your undying love to yourself,” she says, leaning into him when he turns to her. He lets go of her hand and she presses both of them to his chest just to keep her feet steady. The grass is a little wet and her sneakers slip.

Killian looks down at her hands and then back up at her face. “Noted.” With a clearing of his throat, he says, “I found your phone.”

“Oh, fantastic!” she says and hugs him. See? She knew she was going to do something stupid. “I really need that to get me through the rest of this evening.”

He doesn’t step back but shudders out a breath and says, “You’re not going to want to hug me in a moment.”

Emma jumps back. “Shit.”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess why he’s looking at her like she’s become someone else and blushing like he’s been caught reading her diary. All it takes is the devilish voice - it sounds a bit like Ruby, of course - screaming a reminder in her ear.

“You found my fucking list,” the voice and Emma say at the same time.

He’s very quiet and still for a beat. “A pretty apt description, Lady Swan.”

If she wasn’t certain before, she’d be certain now because he says “Lady” like he’s reading off “lady or dude appropriate” - like he’s read it off several times and still hasn’t wrapped his head around it.

“Stop calling me that for a moment, please, Killian.”

She doesn’t know how it’s possible but he reddens even more. “Of course. Emma, I truly didn't intend to read it. I was just trying to make sure it was your phone.”

And of course the last text he would see would be the one from Ruby.

“It’s mine. Give it, please.”

“I charged it for you,” he says.

She lifts an eyebrow at him and his awkwardness. “That’s kind of you,” she says and then lifts her eyebrows a little higher when he tilts his head to the sky and murmurs to himself.

“You ok-”

“Did you have anyone in mind for that list?”

He runs his fingers through his hair and his eyes do that thing where they bore into her and they’re something special now when she has her phone in her hand and he has her list in his head.

He knows. He fucking knows.

“Not you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not _that_ hopeful, Swan. That’s the modus operandi of you...hero types.”

Her sneaker slips on the wet grass as she tries to stuff her phone in her skirt pocket. Emma falls into him and he grabs her by the forearms to hold her up.

“Hero types?” she asks, not moving lest she fall again and take them both down.

“You know, you and your family, saviors of the less fortunate.” His words are too raw until he clears his throat and adds in a distinctively more Captain Jones tone. “Your mother is certainly saving souls this year. Though, she might want to check on yours.”

He leers, and if anything, if _anything_ it makes Emma want to make even more stupid decisions. Stupid ‘I’m not backing down even though it would be a good idea’ decisions.

“You sound jealous,” Emma huffs. “My soul will be just fine no matter how many things I work off that to do list. Or _who_ I work them off with.”

“What about the other parts of you, Emma? Will you be just fine having your lips kissed by just any person? Feeling anyone’s fingers on your bare skin, their tongue, their -”

He doesn’t finish, though he might as well have. It was already lewd enough, the way his mouth curled around every word. Already enough to make her nails dig into her palms, heat spanning the length of her arms, even the places he isn’t touching - and other places he isn’t touching. Won’t be touching.

Could be touching.

“Will your body be _just fine_ in any person’s hands? I should hope you’d pick a partner who knows what they’re doing.”

_Stupid decisions._

“Do _you_ know what you’re doing?”

His eyes twinkle and he looks from her eyes down to her lips. His gaze remains there long enough to make Emma lick her lip and then slides lower to where her chest is lifting. Alcohol always makes her breathing heavier.

“I have an inkling.”

“Just an inkling? I doubt that you could handle even one thing off that list, then,” Emma says.

“Perhaps you couldn’t handle it, Lady Swan,” he breathes. She opens her fists, intending to push him away, but he says her name - “Emma” - like he’s drunk on her and not on the bottle of rum she saw resting by his vacated lawn chair.

“Only one thing. Choose,” Emma says.

He blinks at her. She’s thrown him off and that’s good because he doesn’t need to be cocky about this, she doesn’t want that - she wants...

Killian swallows and says, “Let’s start from the top and -” He pauses to let her go and draw his fingers across her collarbone and down her arm, leaving a path of goosebumps behind. “We can work our way down.”

It’s a good innuendo, she has to give that to him - will be giving him a lot more than that if this night continues _down_ the path it’s headed.

“Let me show you that treehouse.”

He waves a hand forward and she sees the path on the ground, keeps her focus on treading it carefully instead of on the grass. Now that she’s made this decision, she isn’t going to sabotage herself by breaking her ass in a drunken fall.

She blanches. _Anal_ was on that list.

“You okay, Emma?”

Killian’s voice is soft and the touch of his hand to her back is unsure. He draws away as soon as she moves to look at him.

“I’m fine, I just - to be clear, number 10 is never happening.”

He chuckles and waves her forward again. “I didn’t entertain the thought. Although…”

He smiles, doesn’t smirk or leer, so Emma’s hackles don’t rise. Something else does, though - thoughts of everything else on that list and starting from the top, working their way down.

His shirt is half open, revealing more chest hair than a teen should have probably and practice may have done a number on his mouth, but he looks fine everywhere else she looks.

She _looks_.

“Emma. Emma, the treehouse.”

The reminder isn’t casual, a strained sound that confirms Emma’s suspicions about the tent in his jeans. She bites at her bottom lip and turns towards the path again. When she looks up, she can see the treehouse, which is more like a tree-mansion because it’s spread between two entwined trees, a foundation under it that’s better than some houses and Emma stops again, this time in awe.

“This is huge. There are _stairs_ , Killian.”

He’s so close behind her that his breath is an almost kiss on the back of her neck when he says, “Should make getting up there a bit easier on us.”

It does. It makes getting up into the empty treehouse easier than is good for her because she’s entered that state of drunkenness where she feels light as a bird and she needs solidity beneath her. Emma’s on her back before she realizes exactly how it’ll look to him.

Like she’s eager for _it_. For him.

It’s dark, but he finds a light switch - a goddamn light switch in a treehouse; lifestyles of the rich and the famous - on the wall and Emma realizes there’s a couch behind her, a perfectly good couch she could’ve laid across and she’s splayed out on the floor.

What a mess.

“I -” he starts. Fixing her with a look that’s more determination than lust, he drops to the floor beside her. “Good choice. That couch is dustier than the floor.”

“That’s not encouraging,” she says and giggles when he rolls closer. There’s nothing funny in the way Killian’s looking at her as she turns her head to face him, but she giggles again.

Oh fuck, she’s _nervous_.

“Get this over with,” she says. Her usual approach to nerve-wracking situations doesn’t feel appropriate after the words leave her mouth. She bites her cheek and closes her eyes for a bit, just to calm down.

When she opens them, he reaches out to touch her cheek. “Patience,” he says.

Their first kiss is a bit of a mess because Emma only connects the dots when his face connects with hers. There’s no muscle memory to go off of, she’s never felt his lips before this moment and she fumbles, lips too dry, head too swimmy.

“Let me try again,” he says and sits up, pulling her with him.

Their second kiss is a mess of a different kind. Killian keeps one hand on her jaw and it becomes crystal clear to her just how much rugby has shaped them into the kind of hands - firm, controlled, _gentle_ \- that can almost distract her from a kiss. He pulls her back in with the swipe of his tongue against the part of her lips. She bites down on his bottom lip and swallows his gasp. She took him by surprise, but he does her one better, mouth moving over hers with a skill that makes her grab onto his shirt to keep from falling forward, to keep his lips on hers for as long it keeps her nerves sparking to life.

It never stops doing that, but they have to part to breathe and when Emma tries to kiss him again he tilts her head up with the hand on her chin, brushes aside her hair with the other and kisses her bare neck.

“Oh, shit,” she says.

Killian chuckles into her skin and cuts the sound by sucking another kiss just millimeters away from the first. She’s going to have a line of hickeys down her neck - starting from the top, starting from the top.

Speaking of…

“Your top, Emma. It has to go.”

Emma agrees wholeheartedly. Releasing his shirt she tugs hers out of her skirt, uses the moment to take her phone out and push it to the side, too, mindful of knowing where she put it even though he’s intent on making her forget, kissing her cheek, her neck, can’t keep his mouth off of her long enough to let her take off her shirt.

She pushes him away and pulls the tee over her head, tosses it to the side with her phone.

“Oh, it’s cold,” she says, wrapping her arms around her. It isn’t _that_ cold but his gaze makes her want to cover up at least for a moment, just to get her bearings and calm the way her heart thumps in her chest when his hand touches her elbow.

Killian backs off, sliding out of his jacket. “Lift up for a moment,” he says.

Emma raises her hips for him to slip the jacket beneath her butt. His shirt follows his jacket until they have a poor mockery of a bed beneath her.

At least his shirt is soft and warm when she lays down on it. He smells nice, she realizes belatedly (way belatedly) when she turns her face into the material. It’s less a realization than it is a revelation. She’s known him for close to five years now and it’s only now that she can distinctly say that he’s the reason she always feels so much more awake during their shared classes - he smells like mint.

“Emma,” he says, leaning over her.

She doesn’t so much as resist looking at his bare chest as she just can’t take her eyes off of his face. There’s that damn “stare you into the ground” look again and well, she’s as rooted as she can be.

Emma’s nervous again. Her mouth takes charge. “Are you going to take off my bra already?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. A smile starts on one side of Killian’s mouth and moves over to the other side. She distracts herself from the warm pressure of his hands by focusing on that and the wisps of hair that fall across his forehead and his one eyebrow that always seems to lift on its own. Unthinkingly.

Emma’s not thinking when his hands unclasp her bra. She just follows the motion, lifts her arms so he can slide it off her shoulders and down past her hands. It joins her tee and her phone, far enough away that she can’t reach to cover herself up even if she wanted.

His smile makes her want something else.

Killian clears his throat and what follows are words pressed into her skin. He moves over her, one leg between her bent knees, the other resting on her side. Grasping her chin firmly with both hands he kisses her, a too brief kiss to her lips and then starts another path down her neck, softer kisses that tease at her bruised skin.

Emma’s mouth parts without warning, a sound escaping her that is positively embarrassing. He pauses and kisses her neck again - and again until she repeats the sound. She feels it not just in her chest, but between her legs and this would be the moment Emma double checks the lock on her room door before crawling beneath her sheets and pressing a pillow there, her hand not enough to get her where she needs to be.

"I like that sound," he says when he draws another one from her throat.

"No, really? Color me surprised."

He hums. "Careful, Emma, I could spend all night right here and then where would you be?"

A clever response escapes her. Honesty is easier.

"Frustrated."

He lifts off of her, backing up on his knees. Emma wiggles, her knee brushing between his legs.

"Please don't knee me," he says. "I'm trying to remember this moment for what it is."

He isn't looking at her breasts, eyes focused on hers. Curious, she asks, "And what is it?"

"Perfect, bloody perfect," he says.

Emma drops her knee, just the one. Sincerity does that to her, takes her off her guard, and the alcohol doesn't help.

Doesn't help her. Helps him maneuver himself lower. He avoids her breasts entirely which is incredibly strange. Killian doesn't leave her much time to question why, kissing the skin just beneath her breasts, direct center of the spread of them.

Her stomach pulls taut like she's caught on a wire and he's pulling her in.

He lifts his head, resting his chin on her stomach. It itches where his scruff brushes her skin.

"So..."

Killian smiles. “You have freckles everywhere, Emma.”

The wonder in his tone makes her face heat, the dip of his tongue sends that heat lower, and by the time he’s done kissing each freckle beneath her breast - when she can see his eyes again and count the out of place hairs on his lifted eyebrow - by that time, the heat has reached her toes.

The digging of her heels makes the floorboards creak loudly.

“I swear to god if this thing falls apart beneath me,” Emma says.

He kisses her breast again - her head snaps back and she loses the grip of her heels as his tongue finds a path up to her hardened nipple.

And for a moment she'd thought he wasn't interested in that, but he's more than interested, his kisses are sloppy and hurried and she never knew how sensitive she could be there until his teeth scraped her nipple and she has to pull at his hair, pull him up and away.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, brows furrowed in worry.

Emma would let him go, but he looks good with her hands pulling at his hair and she's still drunk - drunker now that her clit is throbbing in time to her heartbeat.

"Emma, are you okay?"

"Lower?" she asks tentatively. Her voice is quiet. Nervous again. "I'm not really the patient type, can you just -?"

She lets go of his hair but he remains wrenched up over her and instead of heeding her request, he crawls higher, covers her body with his. Her nipples drag across his chest and he’s hard against her thigh, so Emma’s grateful when he kisses her again, just so she can find her focus in his lips instead of embarrassing herself with any more ridiculous sounds.

Buck up, Emma.

“You went the wrong way,” she says, pulling at his hair again even when he winces and frowns over her. “And I said choose _one_ , Jones.”

His eyes slide across her face. “And I did choose my one, didn’t I? Alright, Lady Swan, I apologize for pressing my advantage.”

“Your advantage? Shakespeare, if you don’t put your tongue to better use, I’m going to hate you for the rest of my life probably,” Emma says.

She doesn’t even feel nervous about the demand, which means she’s passed stage one: stupidity, stage two: levitation, and now has landed in stage three of being drunk: brutal honesty.

“Hate me for not attending to your needs? You wouldn’t need to do that, I’d hate myself enough for the both of us.”

He must’ve entered his brutal honesty stage, too because he’s not lying and even if she couldn’t hear it in his voice, she’d see it in his eyes, and what she thought was determination before looks more like admiration, which she doesn’t think will make sense even when her fingertips aren’t tingling with tequila and lust.

Killian actually follows her demand this time. When she releases him, he moves down her and she’d almost forgotten how easy she’d made this for him (not that she planned this - how the hell could she?)All he has to do is lift her skirt a bit more and she’s practically bare for him. All he does is slide one leg out of her underwear and she _is_ bare for him.

This is about the time that she should feel nervous. There’s a reason she’d put this on her list after all. _Things we’ve never done_ , Ruby had said and all the reasons Ruby’s so invested in her sex life are right there because Emma doesn’t have one, never had one, and now Killian’s about to put his tongue on her.

She’d forgive herself for feeling nervous, but all she feels is hot when his shoulders spread her thighs farther apart. They’re hard and warm. The weight is nice, a good pressure, easy to focus on.

Emma still yelps when his fingers touch her. Surprise doesn’t so much as get the chance to settle in before it spikes again when Killian breathes against her and says, “Don’t worry. You’ve chosen a good partner.”

“Uh, thank you?” Emma says.

She’s all nerves, all nerve endings that spark to life when his tongue starts from the bottom and works its way up. That isn’t what he promised, but she doesn’t mind. It’s a weird feeling at first until he reaches the top. Her pillow can go fuck itself honestly because _this_ is what she needs to get off, the pressure of his wet tongue swirling around her clit, the kiss of his lips around the throbbing bundle and the sight of him beneath her skirt, head disappeared so all she can do to tell what he’s feeling is to shudder into the increasing rumble of his breath when he pulls back to pant against her hot, wet folds.

He takes long moments to explore them, long moments to write his name into her flesh with his tongue. At least, she assumes he’s doing that, branding her with his tongue and his fucking teeth. Half of her is terrified he’ll bite down too hard, and the other half of her, the bigger half trusts him wholeheartedly, trusts in the way he works at her, fingers only there to hold her open so he can tongue fuck her into a wet mess.

She’s really keeping it classy when she squeezes his shoulders and lifts her hips to meet him when he dips his tongue inside her. The classiest, absolutely, when she grips the top of her skirt and holds onto it for dear life, moaning too loud and maybe even begging a little.

It must take ten years for her to come, it really must because she feels like she’s on the brink for forever and his tongue is just holding her there, on the brink of going over the edge, but not letting her go.

Not until he sucks her clit into his mouth again, sucks hard enough that the lights blink behind her eyes, fireworks, explosions, cresting waves, all that good stuff - all that perfect, fucking amazing, top of the line orgasmic release stuff.

After those ten years and the best orgasm she’s ever had pass (which is need to know information and he’ll never need to know), Emma hits that stage of drunkenness that she loathes the most: sobriety.

“Emma.”

He rises from between her legs. _Fuck_. Killian’s face is _wet_. He licks at his lips and Emma actually jerks forward like he’s licked at her instead. _Fuck_.

“Be quiet,” Emma says.

She’s wet, she’s topless, and her back is sweatier than it should be. Her hair feels a mess beneath her. Taking stock of the situation, Emma realizes that it is a _situation_.

“I have to go,” she says as nonchalantly as she can manage when her breathing’s as heavy as it is and there’s saliva and her own release slicking down into places she doesn’t want to think about, has to think about because she is not putting her underwear back on over that.

“I think there’s a bathroom in here,” he says quietly.

His chest rises with the words and Emma stares. She’s just catching her bearings, taking a moment to drown out the panic in her head by distracting herself with his muscled stomach, the dark hair (way too much for a teen) that covers most of his chest and goes lower where she’s grateful she can’t see. Emma’s trying to calm down, not think of other things on that list - or things she kept _off_ that list.

Killian stands and there goes her keeping calm out the window because he actually winces when he does it and it’s obvious why.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

It takes all of a moment of him stepping past her for her to realize that the wetness beneath her is pooling on his jacket. Oh god, he’s going to need to get that _laundered_.

She’s laughing when he comes back with his face thankfully dry. Bending, Killian offers her a hand to stand and a towel that actually looks clean.

“The rest of the treehouse is much more dust free than here,” he says. “Strangely enough.”

Emma stares at him. He gives her a smile, stupidly small.

“Um, can you turn around?” she asks.

Even though the request is probably ridiculous given recent events, he turns. He doesn’t stay quiet though which is almost as bad as him watching.

“If you’re interested, I’d be highly interested in doing that again.”

“Killian, that was a one time, drunken thing. To be clear, I have no intentions of finishing off that list with you or anyone else.”

“Or anyone else,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s smiling. “But if you do -” He _is_ smiling. “You have my number. And I believe I have yours. Numbers 2 through 9, right?”

Emma drops the towel on top of his jacket. “I may be half-naked but I will still throw your ass out of this treehouse.”

His shoulders rise and fall in a quiet laugh. “Point taken.” He doesn’t stay quiet for more than a moment, like she’d expect him to resist the sound of his own voice. Killian sighs and says, “Can I turn around yet?”

“How about you wait until I’m gone,” Emma says while she fastens her bra and grabs her t-shirt off the floor. As quickly as possible, she stuffs it as _neatly_ as possible into her skirt. She considers going to find whatever bathroom he found and attempt to fix her hair, but sobriety is an asshole, egging her on, “Get out of there! Get out while you still can!”

_Get out before Ruby and Belle come looking._

“I’m going to turn out the light when I go. Wait ten minutes and then you can return to the party,” she says.

He doesn’t move to turn around even as the lights go out around him. A wave of something like disappointment hits her right until the moment her sneaker touches the top step and he says, “As you wish.”

“I told you to keep your undying love to yourself,” she hisses back at him, turns her head, meets his eyes, and takes the rest of the stairs in a half run.

Sobriety is an asshole, egging her forward, but so is the feeling of his eyes on her as she goes.


	2. and for eternity i'd lay in bed

She left her phone behind in the damned treehouse. Emma realizes this only five minutes after she’s gone, as she's pulling her jacket's collar up to her chin and brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt. She can’t go back. She needs the next five minutes to herd Ruby and Belle out of their heavy petting session and into Belle’s car before Killian reaches the party - if he even decides to keep to their agreement (her demand.)

She doesn’t worry about that too much, though. Emma has her priorities in order. The phone can wait, and he will, too.

Still, it eats at her in ways that are decidedly unsexual. It never occurred to her as she was lying there all the trouble having that list on her phone could get her into (though, if she’s being real honest, not a lot of things occurred to her while she was laid out on the floor.) Anyone else could find her phone. Anyone else could figure out her passcode - 6969 (Marian’s idea of a joke) and read her last texts and discover the list and try to exploit her for anything - Jesus, this could be the worst thing that’s ever happened to her.

Ignoring the treehouse...adventure. That could’ve been much worse.

It wasn't actually bad at all, and the part of her that's going to have to endure her mother's questions tomorrow says she should regret it, but her body says different. Her body is saying it in about 500 different languages that regret should be the farthest thing from her mind.

Her head however says that it's a good idea to let Ruby drive so she can't notice much of the flush in Emma's cheeks.

"Did you fall?" Belle asks, frowning deeply. "Emma, you have dirt in your hair."

She lays her face in her hands and fuck it all, she's smiling - Ruby would disown her if she knew, and Emma's smiling into her hands because her best friend's number one enemy went down on her in a dusty rich dude's treehouse.

"I may have drank too much and slipped on grass," Emma lies, sort of. She had slipped a lot on her run back to Victor’s actual house.

"Makes sense. You're not the most careful of drinkers," Ruby says.

"That's unkind," Belle says, patting the back of Emma's head vigorously. "The last spill wasn't her fault."

Emma just _loves_ it when they talk about her like she’s not there with her head between her knees while thinking of Killian between her knees, the press of his shoulders against her knees, his hair in her fist - heat licks up her spine and, actually, she’d much rather have them talk around her than talk to her right now.

“Yeah, Superintendent Mills can go fuck herself,” Ruby says.

Belle hums in agreement, Emma agrees, hell, the whole town, school system, neighboring cities and states would agree. Superintendent Mills can take her disdainful looks, her “Do you even look before you walk or...” and disgusted turn of her head at Emma’s mom, and her “has this obliviousness been instilled in you since birth?” - She can take it _all_ and shove it.

“Emma, should we drop you first? Are you ‘late night study session’ sober?” Ruby asks.

Emma lifts her head from her lap and carefully thinks of nothing whatsoever when she says, “I’m ‘girls’ night sneaking drinks from your granny’s cupboard’ sober, which is sober enough.” As an afterthought, she adds, “I need a shower.”

“I’m _sure_ you do,” Ruby says.

Emma’s stomach drops and knots into rollercoaster twists and turns totally unlike the jumps it made when his mouth was on her lips, her neck - she reaches her hand up to her collar, frantic for the split second before Belle pats her head again, and says, “I think I got most of the dirt out, so at least if your parents are awake, they won’t ask about your forest adventures.”

“Thank god,” Emma breathes out, relieved. Her lie is good. It’s good. She needs to calm down, take a chill pill, relax, and for the love of all that is good and right in this world stop thinking of this evening.

Just _forget about it_.

-

Her grey turtleneck is hot as hell, but at least it prevents her mother from sending her there for real. Not that she doesn't look tempted to do so anyway, even without the evidence of Emma's...adventure.

"What your mother is trying to say is that..."

"I can't just pretend you're not a teenager, Emma, especially when I run a school full of them - and teenagers are not bright. Victor might be a brilliant student, but he'll be an alcoholic at age 18 if we let him."

"Got it!" Emma says with a cheery salute, desperation breeding sarcasm. "I'll just bring him back on the path of righteousness, no big deal. Shouldn't be difficult at all."

Her mother turns her head to stare at the back of her father's head. "Stop laughing, David." Turning back to Emma, she shifts her weight to better balance her bulging shoulder bag on her hip and says, "It will be difficult and I'm not telling you to steer him back on the _righteous_ path, though by all means, do that.” She shakes her head and in one quick breath says, “I'm just saying that if you attend one of his parties again to switch out his vodka for a club soda. Maybe replace the whiskey with Pepsi?”

It’s so earnest that Emma can’t even laugh. Nodding she says, “I’ll try, but I think he’ll notice.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe I’ll just wake up the Sheriff -” She nods at her husband’s bent form. “He’ll break up the party and save your teenage livers instead," her mother finishes with a shake of her head

Her dad keeps facing away from them up until the moment her mom walks to his side and bends down to lay a kiss on his forehead. He turns into that, no longer hiding his smile behind his cup of coffee. It’s one of those Hallmark channel moments, a Lifetime movie beginning before everything goes to shit and the teen daughter reveals that she went to that party and hooked up with that jock and now regrets her whole life - also known as what Emma should be feeling, probably. Maybe not _as_ dramatically as Made for TV movies warrant, but somewhere in the ballpark of regretting more than just the sweaters she's going to have to wear for the next couple of days.

"Emma, do you need a ride?"

Emma shakes her head at her mom. "I'm going to walk, but you should go. Don't you have that meeting with Archie?"

Her mother freezes and then jumps into the last of her pre-work motions. Emma and her father share a look and he says, "Don't forget your hat."

It's only moments after her mother leaves _with_ her hat clutched tightly in her hand that he waves Emma over and it's worse than the “talking to” because where her mother pries, her dad just understands.

"You know that your mother is right. I could have you arrested for underage drinking."

Emma plops into the seat across from him and tries for nonchalant. "Gotta get those arrest numbers up, right?" He raises an eyebrow and Emma stammers, "Not that I'm admitting to any illegal activity or knowledge of it. Innocent until proven guilty is still a thing, I hope."

He sighs and takes another drag of his coffee. Standing up from his chair, he says, "I have to go arrest real criminals -"

"Leroy's at it again, huh?"

Folding his hand over his mouth to cover his smile, as seriously as he can muster, he says, "Please, we just want you to be safe. Are you being safe?"

All her mother's talks replay in her head. ‘Female condoms are also _a thing_ , Emma.’

"As safe as possible," Emma says, cringing internally.

With his hands gripping the back of his chair, he says, "I trust you, Emma. So does your mother. You could never let us down but -"

Emma sucks in a breath. His look is too knowing.

"Don't let yourself down either."

"That's not in the plans," Emma says.

(And neither was last night, but -)

He smiles. "Good."

-

"Aren't you dying in that sweater?" Marian asks curiously as she flips through their chem book.

"Yes," Emma admits. "But I'm not wearing anything underneath so I can't actually change out of it. I thought it would be colder. I'll tell my mom to cut back on the heating."

Marian laughs, rubbing at the collar of her shirt. "Please do, I'm going to die in here before midterms even happen."

"At least it'll get us out of the AP exams," Emma says, staring mournfully at Marian's chem book.

"Now that you mention it," Marian says. She laughs but it turns into a depressed sigh when she flips to the next page. _Photosynthesis_. "Getting anywhere on those questions?"

Emma glances at her paper and the half-written response for question number 2 of 11. She shoves the paper to the side.

“Care to avoid chem as long as possible?”

Marian mulls it over. Finally, she makes the right decision and closes her chem book, “Why not? What did you have in mind?”

“I think we can get Netflix on the laptops. Last I checked, they hadn’t blocked it.”

Sweeping her hands over her hair, Marian wraps it up in a quick ponytail. So, Netflix it _isn’t_.

“Belle,” Marian calls. “We’re ready to help with the cataloguing.”

Emma groans _loudly_. “When I mentioned avoiding chem, I didn’t mean that we bury ourselves in the Dewey Decimal System instead. I do need to be able to sit through the rest of my classes.”

Marian hums and resolutely ignores hers. Typical. It makes Emma’s cheeks hurt to bite back the smile and keep her face fixed in the scowl. It’s not like it matters. Marian doesn’t care whether Emma smiles or frowns; either way, they’re going to be helpful - and Emma has to admit that it does feel better setting her textbook aside and stretching out her limbs to follow Marian into the storeroom than it would to break her back leaning over the teeny laptops and trying to watch crappy movies.

Still, this is going to be a bitch. Belle likes to write in cursive small enough to hurt Emma’s eyes when she’s _wearing_ her contacts. She doesn’t even have her glasses today, too distracted applying makeup to her neck that’s no doubt sweated off into the fabric of her sweater. The sweat damp sweater that she’s not taking off until she’s holed up in her room for the night.

“How about I stick to plugging books into the computer?” Emma says when Belle pushes the cart of books to her.

“That’s cool,” Belle says. “Thank you so much for this. Superintendent Mills is supposed to visit soon and you know how she is…” Belle trails off, mouth twisted to the side. She sighs and places her hands on her hips.

Marian nods vigorously, grabbing the cart with a determined slap of her hands. “Oh, we know. So, let’s not give her an excuse.”

Emma follows Marian and the rolling cart out of the storeroom and rounds the counter with the same determination in her step. Regina had fought like hell to keep Belle barred from this position - and had failed. They’re not going to give her an excuse to win.

Guilt stabs at her as Emma stabs at the keys, logging into the system. _Killian_. She isn’t Ruby. She can’t _hate_ him, but she can sure as hell want to punch him for drawing Regina’s fire on Belle - and punch herself for that ‘one time drunken thing’ that she keeps thinking about and _not_ regretting.

(She can also want to punch Ruby for that list, right? Or should she just relegate that to herself too considering that she wrote it...or Ruby since Emma never would have had she not egged her on? Or Killian for finding it?

Or _Killian_ for…)

Slapping her hand away from where she’d reached up to touch her neck, Emma squeezes her knees together, hating herself loud enough for every telepath in the vicinity to hear her woes. She squeezes her eyes shut for a good fifteen seconds, and with an exaggerated shake of her head and shoulders, she dives into the online catalogue.

“You’re the best,” Belle’s voice rings out from the back. “And don’t worry about doing _too_ much. Killian will be here tomorrow.”

Emma grunts and adjusts the font size on the screen. Her head hurts.

-

She sits next to him in English because, what the hell, she isn’t going to _avoid_ him. Emma’s stronger than that, braver. Plus, it’s a testing day so she’ll only have to endure an awkward silence for ten minutes tops before she has to endure the silence of her classmates stressing over their mock AP exams.

And even then, she could always put on her headphones.

But first things first, she needs her phone and - well, when she slides into the seat next to him, he hands it over without question, without even a word of greeting.

Rude. Childish. _Obvious_. She starts to say so, but the words flutter away. Killian’s staring - and not just _staring_ but eyes on her like he’s going to go Cyclops on her and blaze her away with his ridiculously blue eyes.

(Ridiculous.)

Her headphones and her pop anthems playlist become her refuge, but even if she refuses to acknowledge him while Bye, Bye, Bye blasts out her eardrums, her cell phone buzzes as a helpful reminder that ‘Hey, I exist and I hold the list!’ (Rhymes makes everything worse.) She needs to delete that, change her passcode, and do it all without him knowing that’s exactly what she’s doing.

So, she needs to do that later.

What a perfect way to start a mock exam, with a headache and - she looks at her phone - 20 missed calls and a fully charged battery.

Kind of him.

-

So it goes like this: they ignore each other.

No, it goes like this: she ignores Killian while he stares at her.

But really it goes more like this: Emma sneaks quick glances just to see if he's stopped looking. He hasn't, doesn't, _won't_.

She has yet to decide whether it's annoying, uncomfortable, weird, expected, (appreciated,) or any and all of the above when he cuts out of their double period French.

Which leaves Emma floundering under the dropped anvil of realization that, without Killian, she doesn't have a partner for the daily chat.

Final decision: it's annoying. Aurora and Tiana are just too good at French and without Killian there to mess up with her, Emma's failings are just embarrassing.

And so it goes like this: Emma looks around for Killian, but he's nowhere to be found.

-

When Thursday rolls around, Emma’s neck has cleared up enough that she doesn't stress having to strip down for PE beyond the usual "I'm going to have to get hot and sweaty before half a day of classes."

What she does stress is the way Marian and Ruby whisper as they join her on the elliptical bikes. She knows it isn't about _him_ because she'd get more than quick shot looks and a shared murmur, but she's worried. It could still be about the list.

The one she's deleted, the one that she even cleared from Ruby's phone when she wasn't paying attention during Stats. The one that she'd cleanse from her mind if she could.

"Marian's going to Victor's next party, so you have to go,” Ruby announces.

Emma stares across the walkway between their machines, walking on the elliptical so hard and fast that she's sure it'll be only a moment before she wrenches the machine from the floor and stalks over to them to give them the knock to the head they deserve.

"Marian, really? _Victor?_ "

Ruby snorts. With a very serious shaking of her head, she says, "Of course not. She isn't going for _him._ She's going for you."

Emma blinks and pauses on the machine. "Oh. Really?" She corrects the surprise in her voice into the appropriate amount of suspicion when she adds, "Why?"

Ruby gnaws at her lip and then settles for the straightforward approach.

"I haven't seen Belle in days and I know we promised we wouldn't abandon you again, and I don't want to be a liar or break a promise but..."

Emma pouts. "Ruby, you're breaking my heart."

“I'll have Granny fix you a free milkshake and you and Marian will have Victor's game room, the dart board and Mario Kart. You'll be fine.”

"It sounds like you're bartering our friendship for a night with your girlfriend.”

"Sounds about right.”

Ruby shrugs and fake wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. Emma knows it’s fake because Ruby hasn’t even been moving on the machine, so it must be relief that Emma _hasn’t_ , in fact, wrenched the elliptical from the floor and strangled her like she deserves.

Marian hates parties like these. Whatever Ruby’s promised her in return...Emma hopes that it’s money because she has plans for Marian’s next bow purchase - wolf hunting season is so on. Marian gives Emma a small smile, looking between Emma and the now distracted Ruby, and lifts an eyebrow knowingly. So wolf hunting season is _not_ on.

“Maybe this time I'll even let you win at Mario Kart,” Marian says.

Emma pushes herself harder on the elliptical. Gritting her teeth, she hisses, “Liar. You never let me win.”

“But it’s always fun to watch you try.”

-

It goes like this, no, _really_ goes like this: Killian straight up avoids her.

Emma isn't offended, although she totally could be if she felt like being offended by Killian refusing to even show his face in their shared classes anymore. She's just confused, really.

It was just a...well, not a kiss in the general sense, but everything else sounds awful in her own head so a "kiss," (quotation marks included) is what she'll call it. It was just a “kiss.” There’s no reason for him to be freaking out like this. History notwithstanding, _Ruby_ notwithstanding, there is just no reason for him to be acting like the world will end if he shows up to class.

And okay, she might be a little more than just confused and annoyed - she's kind of terrified, actually, and not just for her French grade which takes a nosedive every lesson she spends tongue-tied over simple words while Aurora and Tiana say every word so easily.

He'd held her phone for over two days. He had all that time - who's to say that he didn't text himself the list? She is _and_ did. When the thought had occurred to her while lying in her bed, wrapped around her pillow and trying to sleep with the knowledge that Victor's party would no doubt draw...wanted memories at unwanted times, Emma had checked her phone and all the text conversations, but found no trace of any illicit forwards, just the last texts she'd sent him when he'd been out sick.

**3:15: want me to bring some of granny's noodle soup and the english book?????**

**3:17: just bring yourself and i'm sure i'll heal up in no time at all, lady swan**

**3:17: haha, find a torrent of it yourself, captain**

And that's what she expected, really, which only made her more suspicious of him - and, now, herself. It was easy to delete text histories, email histories.  He could've even taken a picture of it with his phone. The fact that she dismissed all of these worries with a snort and had fallen asleep with thoughts of him on her mind was enough to make her suspicious of herself, of her motives. Of her inability to stop thinking of the way he looked without his jacket for that one day he'd shown up for class. The jacket that she hadn't seen him wear since...

She hadn't seen _him_ since.

Which is why the terror is settling in her gut. There's no logical reason for him to be acting this way, so there _must_ be an illogical one and all those worries she dismissed, all those crazy, "why-would-he-even-do-that" ideas draw back to the forefront of her mind with a reckoning.

She needs to take action.

-

Emma takes action.

“Killian’s never volunteered to help before. I’m glad he’s decided to do so now,” her mother says over dinner. Emma lifts her glass to her lips and tries not to choke on the water in her mouth which should be an easy feat, but alas when her mother says, “I’m sure he needs a refresher course,” and fixes Emma with a look, Emma chokes.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that if you pretend I didn’t just spill an entire glass of water all over myself,” Emma says, not even bothering to pat at the blooming stain on her shirt. At least it’s only water.

Her mother nods. “Deal.”

-

He’s already at the booth when Emma makes her way into the gymnasium. The pinks and yellows of the streamers and banners scream Easter instead of the dangers of unprotected intercourse, but Killian is there to give it the hint of sex it’s sorely missing.

Bad choice of words.

Lounging in his seat, he doesn’t notice her at first. He has his leather jacket back and he’s wearing it like it isn’t 10 zillion degrees in the gym. Emma feels ridiculously naked in her short sleeves.

( _You’ve been more naked_.)

Bad choice of thoughts.

( _He’d be “highly interested” in seeing you that way again._ )

Bad choice of everything.

Like, this is a bad idea, and he’s not just staring at her or boring holes into her with his eyes or all those other thoughts she’s said about his looks - he’s glaring at her like she’s a rival captain he’s met on the field.

Admittedly, she’s not sure if this is even true. She’s never gone to any of his matches except Storybrooke’s rugby brand Homecoming. Nothing against them, she’s just more interested in her own fitness than watching her fellow teens attempt murder on the field. Last time she went, he nearly got his skull cracked open.

But last time she went, she’d seen him give the guy that knocked him over this same look, so, admittedly, she’s willing to bet he’s just as ready and able to commit murder now as he was then.

“Lady Swan, are you to be working this booth with me today? How -” His cheery tone drops faster than a speeding bullet aimed right at her head. “Lovely.”

_You brought this on yourself_. Placing her desire for her sanity above her relative safety for the next hour shouldn’t be too hard because it’s extremely easy to remember why she’s here.

The list. The list he’s read. The list he’s helped her check off.

_The list_.

“Isn’t it?” Emma says breezily.

His eyes widen when she hops into the seat beside him. “Just an hour, you and me. Just like old times.”

When she turns to look at him, his jaw is clenched. He unclenches when their eyes meet and his mouth drops into a smirk, “Like old times, Emma?”

Slapping the insulting look from his face seems like a good idea, but meeting him with cutting words of her own seems like an even better one. With a smile to mirror his, she says, “Yeah, when you used to come to French.”

She’s won this round.

He draws a hand around the back of her chair, moving it not so gently towards him. It scrapes loudly and Emma feels it like his fingers are wrapped around her instead. Firm, strong fingers (holding her chin, brushing over her skin, spreading…)

She isn’t exactly grateful when the blonde girl approaches them but -

“Pamphlet?” Emma asks, smiling bright enough to hurt her own cheeks, but his hand is still on the back of her chair so she can’t do more than try to fight past the tension with fake cheer.

The girl - a somewhat familiar looking sophomore - nods. Her eyes dart to Killian and she seems to breathe a sigh of relief. Emma glances at Killian and finds the reason why. He isn’t even looking at the girl, staring at Emma instead.

“If you have any questions, Nurse Astrid will be happy to help you,” Emma says.

“Can I ask _you_ a question?” she says quietly, motioning Emma towards her.

“Yeah, sure.”

Emma jumps up from her seat. Killian’s hand falls from her chair and _this_ she’s grateful for, an excuse to leave his phantom touch behind.

"I thought Ruby was going to be here," the girl says with a glance back at Killian.

“Oh, you're Ruby's mentee?” Emma says, less a question than a new understanding of the girl’s relieved sigh. “Ashley, right?”

The girl nods and whispers so quietly Emma has to strain to hear.  “I told Ruby...my boyfriend and I, we...I’d been wondering, but I don’t want anyone else to know and…”

Emma’s had this mock conversation with her mother enough times to understand. “I’ll get you what you need and have it for, Ruby.” Flickering back to Killian to see him preoccupied with another teen - someone from his team no doubt from the way their voices are rising. She catches a snippet of “match” and “Portland,” so she returns to Ashley and asks, “Have you considered birth control as well?”

“My parents would never let me,” Ashley says.

“There are ways where they don’t have to know,” Emma says. “And it’s always better to be safe than to head into something like that without the proper, ah, preparation.”

Ashley blushes. Emma has no such qualms, not really, not when she’s here manning the booth she’s been prepared for six weeks straight, _twice_ a year for the past three years. Not really when Ashley is starting to look terrified. Emma places a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, I have an idea, Ruby and I will go with you to the doctor if you want? We can make it a girls’ day. Ruby probably owes you a free milkshake, too.”

Ashley laughs. “How did you know?”

“Half the people she comes into contact with are owed a free milkshake.” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Bartering away her misdeeds is a certified Ruby trait.”

“You...you’re totally right,” Ashley says, revelation in her wide eyes replacing the fear. She even smiles.

Emma leans in and adds, “Next week, they’re hosting a raffle. An anonymous one, run by the hospital where if you get checked for STDs and the like you get into the raffle for something donated by the town. I’m not sure what it is this year, not yet, but I encourage both you and your boyfriend to do it. Even if it sucks like last year, you’ll feel better knowing where you both are...sexually.”

Ashley’s mouth drops open for a beat and then she says, “A raffle? Really?”

“I do it every year,” Emma says - and maybe she does have some qualms because her face warms when Ashley just stares at her. “Keeps my mom happy.”

“I’ll ask him,” she says.

“Demand it of him,” Emma says. “You’re making the choice to be with him, and it’s no one’s choice but your own, but you need to make sure that it’s the best choice for you. And if he doesn’t want to put you first, you put yourself first. It’s your body and your life. Make your safety come first, the fun can come after, okay?”

Ashley stares. “Fun?”

“Pretend I didn’t say it like _that_.”

Laughing, Ashley calms once again. “You’re right. Ruby would say the same, I’m sure.”

“With a bit more vigorous shaking,” Emma says.

Giggling, Ashley says, “Thank you...Emma, right?”

“Yep, Emma. We’re going to have the girls’ day and talk some more, but I should get back to the booth before he -” She jabs an elbow back in Killian’s general direction. There’s a raucous hooting behind her that sounds like he’s having far more fun than is appropriate for the location. “Does more of whatever he’s doing.”

“Half the team’s behind you,” Ashley says. With a shake of her head she says, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, grinning.

She pulls away from Ashley and heaving a dramatic sigh, she turns on her heel to face Killian and - Ashley’s right - half the team.

“Scatter,” she says as she approaches the table. They look at her like she isn’t being serious, so she sets her expression into what Elsa calls her ‘prickly face’ and repeats herself. “ _Scatter._ ”

They grumble until they part enough for her to give Killian that look as well. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything, just falls back into his chair with a defeated sigh. The grumbles end after that and by the time Emma’s back in her seat, scooted out of Killian’s easy reach, they’ve all walked away to bother other booths.

“Thanks for that,” Killian says.

“We need to talk - and more importantly we need to act like we’re professionals. My mom’s -”

Killian twists in his seat. “I know your mom wants this to be successful. She and I had this conversation this morning when she surprised me with the fact that I’d signed up for this. But…” His voice drops low. “What could be more important than talking to you?”

She glares at him. “Quiet, Casanova, I’m being serious here.”

“So am I,” he says.

She hesitates at his sincerity - stupid sincerity. Grabbing at her own hands, she twiddles with the bracelets on her wrists, the wolf bracelet gifted to her by Graham, her father’s deputy and the little line of silver arrows that Marian bought her for her birthday. Thinking of them makes it a bit easier to speak around her discomfort.

Softly, she asks, “That...list. I need to know if you did anything with it.”

His eyebrows bend together in a frown. “Like what?” he snaps.

“Like save it or tell anyone about it or -”

You could hear a pin drop between them probably, cut the tension with a knife - but why anyone would willingly step between them right now is beyond her. She doesn’t even want to be here with him looking at her like she’s asked him to murder a puppy.

“No, I don’t have it saved anywhere and I would never share it with anyone - I wouldn’t do that to you, Emma, although considering my past actions I can _certainly_ understand why you’d think so.”

Killian’s words start as a fuming mutter but soften into a shameful quiet that makes Emma hold back her retort. She grabs his arm without thinking. The liar...he doesn’t save his remorse for just Belle - or maybe Emma’s the exception to that.

“I didn’t really think - I was just -” Emma breathes out

He stares at her hand on his arm, and Emma stares too and it’s a moment too long before she pulls away and drops her hands onto the table where they’ll be safe from her own impulsive motions.

Emma’s face feels warm again, flushing like she’s in the wrong. This was a bad idea.

“Bloody hell, Emma, I can’t stop thinking about it,” he curses, voice far too close.

She jerks her head up to look at him as he leans over her. To anyone looking, it just looks like he’s plucking the pamphlet from the table behind her. To anyone looking, it’s completely innocent, the way his head ducks into her space. To anyone looking, he could be saying anything.

“Tasting you was not enough for me, apparently, and French is uncomfortable enough without this.”

Emma refuses to look down. It’s safer to keep her eyes on the approaching junior and ignore the rush of cold air when he pulls back and how cooling it feels on her too hot skin.

“Hey, can I get a pamphlet and ask you a couple of questions?” the girl asks.

“Please do,” Emma says and tries not to make it sound like a plea, tries not to jump out of her seat fast enough to make it obvious that she’d be running if she had any choice at all.

_This_ was a bad choice.

But in the end, _thankfully_ , she’s so bogged down by conversations with girls - and a guy that feels uncomfortable talking to Killian, which Emma _completely_ understands, that the rest of the hour passes without having to say more to him than “pass me another pamphlet,” and “thanks” when he does.

She doesn’t look when he leaves.

(And she will swear to all the gods in the sky that she isn’t disappointed with what she sees.)

(It wouldn’t be a lie.)

-

“What are you doing?” Marian asks curiously while she follows Emma down into Victor’s basement. “You do realize this is how the teens die in the horror movies.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement, Miss ‘I’d be the last girl standing in a horror movie.’”

Marian stomps down the last steps and Emma can only smile as she flicks on the basement light.

“If we’re not coming down here to get murdered, what _are_ we doing?”

“Fucking with Victor.”

Marian giggles. “My favorite pastime. Why and how are we going about this in the basement though?”

“My mother suggested that we save his teenage liver, so grab that club soda in the corner and I’ll grab the vodka.”

Marian gasps loudly. “Your mom is devious. I’m seeing the family resemblance.”

As they’re switching out the vodka for soda, Emma nudges Marian in the side. “So why did you agree to this accompaniment? I know you hate these things.”

“Well, I didn’t want you to be alone and I didn’t feel like doing homework today,” Marian says, glancing away from Emma to pour the vodka into the empty soda bottle.

She doesn’t look at Emma for longer than necessary and Emma’s gut screams ‘Lie!’ but she doesn’t mention it. If Marian has ulterior motives for being here, Emma’s sure they’re _good_ ulterior motives at least. She’s too smile-y tonight to be hiding any dark intentions.

Hopefully.

They hurry to finish pouring the drinks and as they’re skipping up the stairs, Victor appears, clapping them on the back heavily. He’s already drunk.

Emma feels like a savior when she hands him the “vodka.”

“We’ve done our good deed for the evening, now let’s go kick ass at Mario Kart,” Marian says.

The problem with Mario Kart for Emma is that it is fun for an hour or so, but then her fingers start to hurt and her eyes start to bleed and whatever she’s drinking just isn’t doing it for her.

She isn’t drunk enough to watch Marian go through her victory dances again either. The defeat just hits too hard. Luckily, Anna, Kristoff, and Tiana are there to take her place as Marian’s hapless combatants.

“I’ll be back,” Emma says.

Marian barely hears her. Emma shrugs, smiling and leaves the room. She travels through the living room, weaving between dancing drunks and dancing drunks who can’t keep their hands off each other long enough to move out the damn way. She needs another drink, which the girl that gave it to her the last time she was at Victor’s party ( _Tink_?) is happy to give her this time. Tink is a little too drunk herself, so Emma leads her to the couch and makes sure she’s alright, glass of water and bag of chips consumed before she takes her own drink, intent on heading back to Marian.

All her intentions go by the wayside when she sees Killian heading out the back door. They were good intentions too, but she gulps down her shot of _real_ vodka and follows him out the door.

There’s no one on the porch again, just him, his leather jacket, and his bottle of beer.

“Is this the torment I must endure for my past crimes?” he asks mournfully when she comes up beside him.

She elbows him in the side, wishing she had another drink to make up for the way her voice shakes when she says, “You get uncomfortably accent-y when you’re being ridiculous, you know?”

“I’m being ridiculous?” he asks, throwing his head back to look up at the stars. “After what I told you, I’m being ridiculous for avoiding you?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yes.”

By the way he spins her around to face him, she probably should’ve thought about it.

“Emma, you’re killing me here -”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Emma says.

She might be the one boring holes into him this time. He glances away from her, lifting his hand to scratch at his neck. It makes his t-shirt pull back beneath the collar of his jacket, revealing skin she remembers - she remembers a lot. Emma licks at the last trace of vodka on her lips. She isn’t drunk, and it wouldn’t be an excuse here anyway. One drunken mistake is forgivable, but two? And well, it can’t really be a mistake if you do it twice right?

This isn’t a mistake - more like curiosity gone haywire and a healthy dose of desire to push her into taking Killian’s hand and dragging him down the stairs with her.

_He_ stumbles this time, nearly falling headfirst into her, but despite the redness of his ears when he uses her hand to steady himself, he doesn’t look embarrassed. Far from it, actually.

“We are treading down familiar paths, Lady Swan. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Maybe it wasn’t enough for me either,” Emma says - an admission to him and herself because she wouldn’t have said this even half an hour ago but trying to put it to the back of her mind hasn’t been working out for her. Her dreams last night and consequent frustration this morning will attest to that.

And after the week she’s had - after oscillating between worry and annoyance, but never regret, she supposes - no, she’s going to give herself this.

“This isn’t a grand joke?”

She reaches up to pluck him in the forehead, but he captures her free hand before it even reaches him. Poring over her face, he finally settles on staring into her eyes. With a nod, he says, “Right. Not a joke. So...what did you have in mind?”

This is where she blanks. She’s made it this far, but with both his hands holding hers and the wind rushing in her ears, she can’t seem to think.

“I -”

She stammers, frowns at him because she can’t frown at herself.

“I may have some thoughts about…working our way down that list,” he says.

Emma takes a deep breath in, breathes it out with a murmured, “We _did_ start from the top.”

She remembers #2 and of course Killian remembers it - can’t stop thinking about it as he’s said. She flushes with pride when he has to look away from her to shift on his feet. It probably makes her terrible to be proud of that when they’re not _anything_ really except occasional partners, somewhat friends, somewhat enemies, and on any given day, they could be anywhere in between.

Her hands are still in his. She breaks their hold and beckons him forward. “No one’s up there, right?”

“I’ve been out here all night. No one’s passed me.”

Emma considers this. “Would you even know? I think you’re drunker than me.”

“Not nearly drunk enough to let a whole person pass me by without noticing,” he drawls, getting into step beside her. “I noticed you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I’m -”

_Different_.

“Yeah, you are.”

Killian’s eyes are soft, the kind of wondering look that pulls her back to that treehouse faster than her feet. Draws her back to his body over hers, his smile when he commented on her freckles. He’s smiling like that now. She sometimes has them on her cheeks but they wouldn’t even be that visible now that summer’s over and especially now with the night fallen around them.

So, it must just be her in general that puts that wondering look in his eyes.

It’s understandable - she has a “fucking list” that she’s about to use him to check another one off of. Anyone would wonder about that when you’re the principal’s daughter. It makes perfect sense, but still she glances away, the look making her fumble with her bracelets again.

“Look, the lights are out,” Killian says when the treehouse comes into view. “So, no, I didn’t miss anyone.”

“Keep that perceptiveness up and one day you might even notice that the sun doesn’t revolve around you,” Emma says.

“Oh, I know it doesn’t. I just hope that if I wish hard enough, it might shine on me a little while.”

She’s probably supposed to swoon at his poetic mastery of the English language and the way it sounds in his accent, all... _swoon worthy_ , but instead she giggles and jogs up the stairs. She flicks on the lights when she enters the living room (she guesses that’s what this is). It’s still dusty as ever and she’s horrified in a distant, alcohol finally settling way where she recognizes that there’s an Emma and Killian’s clothing shaped dust angel on the floor but can’t muster the energy to do more than laugh as she kicks at its edges until it fades into indiscernibility.

“Emma, where are you going?” he calls as she jogs past the living room into the hallway (a goddamn _hallway_ ; this is a treehouse. A treehouse). She sees the bedroom at the other end of the hallway and suddenly she isn’t so sure of what she’s doing.

Instinct has her ducking into the first open doorway she sees. It’s the bathroom.

“Oh, did you need to?”

Killian appears in the doorway and starts to step back, to close the door behind him. It feels particularly illicit, pulling him into the bathroom with her and using his own weight to shut the door, but no more so than it does when he draws her against him.

Maybe he starts to say something. Maybe she does. All she knows is that there’s a squeak of noise before they kiss away the sound. It’s a fantastic kiss, more memorable than the first because she knows what his mouth feels like now, knows how to flick her tongue against his lips enough to make him do that thing that makes her -

_Swoon._

She grabs him around the waist, unsure of exactly what she wants besides touching him. She didn’t really touch him last time and if he’s going to touch - to...

“You have to wash your hands,” Emma says.

He lifts both eyebrows. “Alright, that’s um -” Clarity hits him and he laughs. “Oh, yeah, we’re keeping it safe. If you’ll excuse me, Emma.”

She has her hands on his waist, and she doesn’t really want to let go. Settling for the best option, she backs up, drawing him back with her until her butt hits the edge of the sink. She doesn’t even need to ask; he lifts her and sets her down on top of the sink and spins her so he can lean down and wash his hands while she nudges his shirt up his stomach.

“Jesus,” he says.

Killian’s fingers are still wet when he brushes her hair over her shoulder.

“I don’t want to have to wear turtlenecks again this week,” Emma warns when he ducks his head into the crook of her shoulder.

“Reading you loud and clear, Lady Swan.”

His kisses to her neck are softer this time but still Emma squirms on the sink edge, needing some kind of pressure as he breathes over every place his lips touch, hot and damp. When Killian’s tongue moves over her skin, when his hands mimic hers and slide up beneath her shirt, Emma gasps.

He mimics that sound too.

Killian’s muscles feel _nice_ beneath her fingers. Less smooth and hairier than she imagined (others, not him) before her imagination became replaced with the reality of him shirtless and smiling at her instead.

“God, I missed this,” he says like they’ve done this oh so many times before, like she’s been starving him for the one week ( _one_ week) since they last (first) did this.

When Killian’s moves his hands back down her sides to the top of her skirt, Emma feels a little starved too. She has to remind herself that they’re sticking to the list and that he isn’t going down on her again. That would be going too far, straying from the list _just_ for her pleasure would just be wrong. With the list, at least, she can keep things under control even when her breathing is far from it, even when her hands are shaking on his stomach and her eyes are fluttering shut.

“You -” he kisses her and in between every word, he kisses her again and again. “You taste so good.”

“I taste like sweat and lotion,” she says, three steps away from telling him to relax, negative one step away from scooting closer to the edge of the sink and hoping he’ll get the hint.

Killian does.

“Impatient,” he murmurs. He doesn’t mention that she was the same way last time, which is good because then she’d have to clarify that she was impatient because she was _nervous_ and right now, she’s just too turned on to wait for him to explore her skin.

Emma rests her head on his shoulder, keeps her eyes closed but lifts when he tells her to, lets him push her skirt up her thighs and tug her underwear down to her knees.

She’s wet and the sink is going to be wet too - a giggle tears through her. At least he won’t have to get his jacket cleaned this time.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asks.

Emma can’t find a response. Bare now, she feels every sweep of cool air, every lit nerve with a sharpened clarity. She feels the shift in the air just before his fingers touch her, and she certainly feels that, too, when he moves from her labia majora to her labia minora (she wonders if that counts as keeping it classy, if she keeps her running commentary purely biological and doesn’t think _this asshole hasn’t even touched my clit and I need him to, I need him to, I need_ -

When he rubs her clit, it’s all kinds of lit nerves and sparks and electricity warping her spine, driving her face deeper into the leather of his jacket and making her pant with every flick of his thumb.

Killian twists his hand around, keeping his thumb on her clit and circles her opening with two fingers, but even as wet as she is, he only presses in with the one finger, curling the other around her inner thigh.

She bites down on his jacket, tastes leather - not exactly a good taste but it’s better than having nothing to keep her grounded when he sinks in knuckle deep.

“Emma, you okay?”

She says yes, but the sound is muffled by her teeth still being buried in his jacket. Spitting out the leather, she says, “Yes, I’m good,” but her words are still jumbled because as she speaks he drags his finger out of her and presses back in.

“Good,” Killian says.

He shouldn’t sound as wound up as she feels, but he does, and it makes her rotate her hips, trying for _more_ \- more of him spreading her open, stroking her insides, making her feel so full when she didn’t even know she was empty to begin with. He doesn’t exactly speed up, but his breathing does. Emma attempts to bury her head back in his shoulder but he leans down at the same time, nudging her gently with his chin.

She kisses him, grounding herself with his mouth instead. If she bites his tongue, it’s his fault - his fault for stroking her faster, making her fingers itch for more skin to touch. Emma finally moves her hands up his stomach, sliding them over as much skin as she can before she reaches his chest. Honestly, she’s with the general thinking populace on the “what is the point of male nipples” front, but it does feel good when she touches his and he groans into her mouth. She laughs into his and he retaliates by curling his finger deeper and dragging her closer to the edge of the sink. She’d fall off it if not for the steadying hand on her back and the way Killian presses into her.

Lowering her hands, she breaks the kiss so she can get a good look at him. It’s hard, she’s seeing double for a moment - no contacts, drunk, and with his finger fucking into her (whoops, there goes keeping it classy), it’s a wonder she isn’t seeing quadruple.

Killian looks determined, but the kind of determined that’s built on frustration and Emma understands because she’s really close to coming and she just wants to finish now.  It’s too much to have him inside her. She didn’t think it would be like this when she wrote that list, she didn’t _think_ , and she’s not thinking now, just feeling too much, much too slow.

He’s frustrated and if she sticks to the list, he’s going to keep being frustrated, but, as hazy as she feels right now, she wants to go off course, to move her hands even lower, beneath the waistband of his pants. Maybe if she eases his frustration, it’ll ease hers.

“Stick to the list, Emma,” he rasps when her hands begin to drift.

She knows he wants her to touch because he shivers when her fingers grip his waistband and thrusts his finger just that much harder, but he doesn’t give her the chance to make a decision either way because his thumb starts to work over her clit again. She’s too far gone after that to do more than grab his cheek roughly and draw him in for another kiss.

It keeps her from screaming when she comes on his finger, but the downfall is that she ends up biting his lip this time instead. She tastes blood and instinct has her licking at the spot she’s bitten open before her hips stop bucking and she realizes.

“Fuck, that’s not good,” she says. She should probably spit or something, but that’s not going to help if his blood is already in her.

“No shit, Emma,” Killian says, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. He looks totally offended. The hurt she can understand, the betrayal just makes her want to laugh.

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that why you’re laughing?”

“Your finger’s still in me and I can hear my mom chastising me about swapping blood so…maybe, but there are other options.”

Killian huffs. He’s slow to pull his finger out which is good because she’s still shivering on the inside, little pulses that tighten her and make his touch feel a little rougher when he drags against her walls. It feels good, too, which - she doesn’t have time to go again.

(She shouldn’t _want_ to go again, but been there, done that, and got the memo that this is something she wants to happen again. And maybe again.)

“I have to get back to my friends,” Emma says. “They’ll kill you if they find us like this.”

“Right,” he says. “I have a game that I can’t miss so let’s avoid my getting murdered tonight.”

She closes her eyes when he pulls fully away to wash his hands in the sink, but they open when she feels his wet fingers on her cheek.

She shivers. “You’re supposed to wash your hands with hot water, you know?” Emma says.

Killian chuckles and steps away, handing her the towel. “Do you want me to leave again?”

Emma nods. “That would be great, actually. In fact, you should leave altogether.”

“You want me to leave you cleaning up in the dark?”

He frowns and okay, maybe it is a stupid idea.

“I’ll wait here like last time,” he says. “Maybe I’ll even go watch some TV. I’m sure Vic gets the good channels.”

“Watch porn on your own time,” she jokes with a roll of her eyes while she (surreptitiously) drops her hands between her spread thighs.

“I wasn’t even thinking of that.” With a wink, he says, “I don’t need it, anyway.” His eyes move over her and Emma closes her legs.

“Leave.”

“Going,” he says, walking towards the door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob however. Emma waits for him to add another stupid innuendo, but he surprises her with a bright smile and a quiet, “I’ll see you in French on Monday.”

“Thank god,” she says. “Aurora and Tiana make me want to cry.”

“Later, Lady Swan.”

“Whatever, Captain.”

He exits, quickly shutting the door behind him. Emma spends a moment longer sitting on top of the sink, unsure that her legs will hold her up if she hops off. Unsure that she won’t follow in his retreating footsteps if she drops to the floor right then and there.

Which is a hell of a thing to be unsure about, so she focuses on the easy things, on the certainty that if she doesn’t clean herself up and head back soon, Marian will call the search party and then she’ll be doomed.

(And that list? The one she deleted, cleared, erased from existence? The one that’s burned into their memory and into the warmth radiating from her skin?

_That_ list will be left incomplete, and she’s certain that would be a damn shame.)


	3. in my boxers, half stoned, with the pillow under my head

Ruby is late, not that Emma expected her to be on time, and Marian’s late as well. So, Emma, late as she  _also_ is, finds Ashley waiting at their agreed meeting place near the Planned Parenthood looking like she'd much rather flee. Emma jogs over to her, cutting off her potential escape path.

“I saw a Starbucks close by, let's go get a coffee. Something fancy that we'll charge to the ‘Ruby’s screw-ups’' account.”

Ashley nods vigorously. “She swore she'd be here first. She's usually good about it, but -” She glances in the direction of the Planned Parenthood office. “Today of all days, she just has to be late?”

“I'm sorry I couldn't get here earlier either,” Emma says. Unsure whether to take Ashley's hand or elbow, she waves her forward awkwardly. “My mom was a bit concerned when I said I was using the day off to head into Portland.”

Ashley stops in her tracks, loudly burning rubber off her heels. With wide eyes, she says, “Does she think you were coming here for _this_? I mean, this is the closest one and oh my god, does your mom know?”

“No, she doesn't and I would only tell her if _you_ wanted me to. Really, she was only concerned for her credit card.”

Ashley's chest heaves so high that Emma reaches out a hand to steady her when she releases the sigh.

“Credit card. Mall. Right.”

Emma smiles, trying to be reassuring. “You can relax. We’ll be here with you _and_ we can go shopping.” Her attempt is a failure. Ashley just looks confused.

“You don’t like shopping, do you?”

Emma’s the one to breathe a sigh of relief this time. She really thought she’d tanked that.

“I _hate_ it,” she confirms. “You could hear it in my voice?”

Ashley laughs. “Your face is very...expressive.”

Emma feels the frown but can do nothing to stop it.

“Just like that.”

Ashley laughs and Emma’s frown deepens, conscious choice this time. If Ashley’s laughing at her, she can’t freak out. Emma’s a pro at this. Really, she is, because they make it to the Starbucks, through their orders, and through the long wait for Marian and Ruby without another moment of anxiety. Ashley carries most of the conversation, so Emma relaxes enough that she doesn’t even register it at first.

When Marian and Ruby stumble in talking about “the hell of college apps,” Emma doesn’t even react. It isn’t until Ashley grabs Marian by the sleeve and says, “So you finished your application?” that the boot drops.

Ruby’s boots clap the ground hard as she settles down uncomfortably in her seat beside Emma. Emma only glances at her a moment, keeping one eye on Marian, who says, “I did...finish applying to Carleton.”

“Carleton?”

Ruby’s boots clap again. Marian remains standing beside Ashley who shifts in her seat as well. The Starbucks doesn’t quiet, the world keeps moving on, but tense moments in real life don’t always have a captive audience.

“Yeah, I applied to Carleton - which is in Minnesota, if you didn't know - I applied early decision. I finished the application last night so now, I just wait until December 15th for them to tell me.”

Marian always manages to be the adult about things that her stumbling explanation leaves Emma momentarily stunned. She recovers enough to ask, “Early decision...but you have to go if they say yes.”

“Yeah.”

It’s obvious they’re expecting her to be angry or upset, so Emma smiles and says, “Well, I really hope you get in.”

It catches them off guard and Emma has a moment to make her smile perfectly sincere and totally not faked. They managed to keep this from her for weeks now - now that Emma’s thinking about all the whispered conversations and secret looks, and party-hating Marian agreeing to go to a party with Emma because she didn’t want Emma to be alone even though it’s looking like she was alone in not knowing this.

If they can manage that, Emma can manage a few hours of smiling away whatever else she’s feeling.

“Thanks, Emma,” Marian says.

“No problem.”

It really isn’t a problem. Neither is Ashley’s appointment; it’s quick and “painless,” Ashley’s words when she comes out with a shaky smile and a prescription clutched tightly in her fist - and carrying a full body vibrating eagerness to go window shopping while they have Marian’s car and the day off.

“Sorry, Emma,” Ashley says.

“No problem.”

They come out of that with a few new outfits to try to find cheaper online and hot cinnamon pretzels which really is _not_ a problem for Emma but the drive home is a different story.

“Drop me off by Doc’s? I need to pick up a prescription for my dad,” Emma says.

“No problem, Emma,” Marian says.

Not a problem. At. All. Even if that is the last thing Emma says for the rest of the journey, preferring to stare out the window and not think. _Deliberately_ not think. She’s had a lot of practice with that lately, but it still isn’t easy. The usual Maine scenery helps but when they enter the “bustle” of town - the 50 or so people in the town square being the most she’s seen since winter started - Emma forgets that she’s not thinking and her mind goes wild. It travels the long roads from Maine to Minnesota, calculating distances too far for her to even comprehend. Entertains the futures that have been piling atop her desk in paper pamphlets and photo books of smiling teens and sunny campuses. It runs as far away from those futures as it can, which isn’t far when Marian, who applied _early decision_ and will find out in less than 3 months where she’ll be for the next four years, is humming to the Glee soundtrack beside her.

Emma thinks she manages a goodbye that isn’t completely shit, but she can’t say for sure. She certainly doesn’t manage to make it into Doc’s pharmacy, her cover for her real town destination.

She'll be disinherited, ostracized, and exiled if Ruby finds out where she’s headed. Mama's Diner sits on the edge of town as the little loved competition to Granny’s. 97% of Storybrooke wouldn’t be caught dead in it, 50% of which fear they will if Granny gets ahold of them.

Emma skips around the back way because she may love Granny with all her heart, but she isn’t old enough to have a real drink at the counter and she's in need of comfort that Granny's alcohol-less drinks just can't provide right now. Silent, secretive, disgustingly sweet comfort.

It’s warm inside and that’s probably why she decides to look around instead of making her usual beeline for the front counter. Warmth is not generally a good sign in Mama’s, but she doesn't see smoke so it can’t be a kitchen fire again.

Her course halts in its tracks anyway. Someone moping over a plate of Mama's hash browns isn't an unfamiliar sight. Most of the food is inedible, so really it's the perfect place to stare down soggy potato pieces and wonder at the turn your life has taken. Emma's done it a few times herself - that time she fell in love with the newly minted Deputy Graham in freshman year and the whole tenth grade co-school slumber party fiasco of which no one speaks (credit card spending isn't the only thing Emma's mom worries about in Portland).

Still, she's never seen _Killian_ subject himself to this. Even when things were at their most dire for him, he could still be found at Granny's, stubbornly waiting for a burger while an equally stubborn Ruby refused to let him be served.

This isn't exactly a moping day for Emma, but she really hadn't wanted to see anyone or deal with anything besides trying to come to terms with Marian's decision to abandon her for the brighter pastures of Minnesota.

(Emma has a lot of dealing to do because Minnesota is _not_ brighter, especially during its winter hell but goddamnit Marian is leavingfor _that_ so it must be better than wherever Emma might be...wherever that is).

He hasn't noticed her, but Emma's starting to notice the blood on his t-shirt collar and, worse, remembering that she nearly bit his lip in half while he finger-fucked her on Victor's sink. Treehouse sink to be precise. Finger fucked her to an orgasm better than all her (many) attempts since then, to be pretty fucking accurate.

He looks downright depressed and Emma's letting her head run away with thoughts she shouldn't entertain in public while _not_ drunk. Especially not when he looks like that.

“Emma, you're staring,” Killian says. 

She doesn't jump or let out any kind of embarrassing squeak. Steeling herself instead, also known as tossing those finger fucking orgasm thoughts to the back of her mind, Emma walks over to him.

“I was wondering why you looked like the world ended. I've yet to even _prep_ my apocalypse gear.”

He stares up at her, smile still missing. “Concerned about the apocalypse, Emma?”

Emma bristles at the bite in his tone. “Concerned about that damn look on your face.” She drops heavily into the booth seat across from him and slides over until she can prop her feet up on his side. Immediately, she regrets it. The seat is sticky in an “I haven't been cleaned in 10 years way,” but at least Killian doesn't add any smart comments atop the film now coating her bare legs.

“What happened?” she asks. She leans across the table, careful to keep her arms from resting on the suspiciously brown surface. “Seriously, you look like the CDC declared they've created the living dead.”

His face screws up into two expressions of which Emma can only decipher one: confusion. Too many zombie references? Maybe she should try Breaking Bad instead.

“We lost our match, and it was my fault,” Killian says.

He doesn't elaborate and Emma senses he doesn’t want to. Rather than poking at something she knows will only get her more despairing looks, she smiles and says, “Buy a donut. You'll feel better.”

Killian’s eyebrow lifts. Too astutely, he asks, “Is that why you came here? To feel better?”

Emma tries not to answer but what the hell, birds of a feather flock together and all that and she can’t cause any worse looks than the one he’s already giving her.

“Yeah, I did. It’s stupid, really, but…”

“What's stupid?”

“Feeling jealous of a school?” Emma supplies. When Killian only taps her ankle, she (jumps a bit and) says, “Marian applied to Carleton early decision and didn’t tell me because she thought I’d be upset. For a whole three hours, I pretended to be fine with it but…”

“You’re not.”

She shrugs. “I'm not.”

His hand starts moving up and down her ankle and calve. It’s uncomfortable and it is comforting (with a healthy heaping of confusing) when he smiles and says, “You've more success than I, then. I stormed off the field and landed here, no three hours of faking happy for me.”

She cracks a return smile and says, “I couldn’t run away. I was in Portland and Marian had the car.”

“Ah, tough luck, Emma.”

He sighs, eyes straying. In a desperate bid to keep him from picking up his fork again, she replies, “No tougher than that bread on your plate.”

Killian looks down at his meal, sighs, pushes the dish away, and raises a hand to scratch at his head.

“Truly a waste of my hard earned money, but at least my luck has improved.”

“It has?”

His eyes go that deep stare-y blue. _Oh, buddy._ She’s too aware of his hand on her ankle mainly because his touch becomes firmer, every squeeze of his thumb reminding her of other things - and, strangely, that time he helped her gather her belongings after her bag tore. They’d gone for the marble notebook at the same time, and Killian’s hand grabbed hers instead.

“It has,” he confirms.

He’d held her hand too long, then, and suffered for it. Now, when he pulls back his hand, it doesn’t feel long at all. Mama's isn't nearly warm enough to make up for the loss of body heat. She starts to lean her feet towards Killian but catches herself before she touches him and shifts her feet away from him. He leans both elbows on the table, apparently oblivious to her internal dilemma _and_ external fidgeting.

“What kind of donut should I put my money towards, Emma? I’m counting on you not to lead me astray.”

Killian winks, smirks, and drops his gaze to her chest all in one lecherous motion. Emma has no dilemma about touching him now. She tries to kick him and fails, her legs too slow in unsticking from the seat.

Moving (unwillingly) on, she says, “I like the one with almonds. Goes well with a cinnamon hot cocoa,” she says.

“With cinnamon?”

Of course he’d point _that_ particular out and of course she’d blush (of course?) because it’s -

“It's a family thing. I got it from my mom, who got it from her mom and…”

He nods, jumping in before her. “She got it from her mom.”

“From her dad,” Emma corrects.

He chuckles. “I'll have to remember that.”

“Why?”

“Seems important.”

He says it so simply that for a moment his answer makes perfect sense. It’s important that he remember her great grandfather liked cinnamon on his cocoa. Really important. For a moment, she looks at Killian's face and _believes_ , but then logic kicks back in and she can’t even begin to understand why that would be important to him.

Instead of puzzling over this, she kicks him successfully this time and says, “Waste some more of your money and get the donut.”

“My ribs are bruised, Emma.” He groans and rubs at them and Emma would feel bad for the kick, but he follows it with a laugh and asks, “Football never appealed to you?”

“We call it soccer,” she says just to be petty. “And no, not at all.”

“No, I suppose wrestling is more your thing.”

Maybe it’s the stupid smile on Killian's face or the casual stroke of his finger across her ankle, but Emma hears “wrestling” and it twists in her mind into something far dirtier.

“Why would you say that?” she asks softer than she intends because she’s focusing too much on controlling her blush.

“I've seen you elbow a guy in the face for a ball during PE, Emma,” he reminds her.

A kind reminder, one she’s super thankful for. The blush fades. She can see him work through the rest of her PE history, so she kicks him lightly to stop the inevitable recounting and pulls her feet back to her side of the booth so she can stand.

The woman at the counter, “Mama” Ursa glares at Emma in the friendly way Emma’s become used to, but not friendly enough for her to smile and say “the usual,” like she would at Granny's.

“The almond donut, please,” she says.

“Two,” Killian says. As Emma’s turning her head back to look at him, he tells Ursa “Just add it to my bill.”

Ursa heads into the back and returns moments later. _This_ is why Emma comes here. The donut is steaming, freshly made, and smells good enough to make her embarrass herself with a happy sigh.

“Is that to-go?” Ursa asks, looking between Emma and Killian. She never asks, always carries it out already in the bag so Emma can run off, no doubt like most of the other patrons.

Killian’s silent on this one, so it falls on Emma to decide.

(Should I stay or should I go?)

Humming the song under her breath, she contemplates the long walk home - which is enough lonesome contemplation for her to decide that her donut would taste better in company.

“No, I'll stay.”

She takes the offered plate, and scoots back into the booth.

“And here I thought you'd abandon me,” Killian says while centering the plate on the table. He studies his work with a careful eye before he deems it satisfactory enough to turn that gaze on her.

“Like you abandoned me in French?”

Flushing red before his smirk even forms, she picks up her donut and takes a bite to avoid saying anything else that’ll have her staring around Mama’s in fear that _her_ mother will hear him recount all the times Emma’s abandoned him.

 _Which_ would be those two times that she’s crossed off her list. In her head, only, because she’s learned her lesson about not writing those things down. Better to worry about the telepaths than a list like that making the rounds on Facebook.

“That, Emma, was a one-time thing,” he says solemnly. He looks like he wants to say more and, lo and behold, Emma was right to worry about the smirk, but he contains himself to just that, a scratch behind his collar, and a whispered, “A _true_ one-time thing.”

“You're hilarious,” Emma says. Taking another bite out of her donut, she savors it this time, the soft dough and crunchy, sugar glazed almonds, before she lets herself sigh with happiness.

 _Just_ happiness.

He darts his eyes to her lips while she stares at the red tips of his ears. She makes sure not to miss a spot while licking the glaze off her lips and only when his mouth starts to fall open does she say, “This makes me feel _so_ much better.”

His knee bumps hers.

“I'm sure it does.”

She bumps his back, just a little longer than he did.

“Eat, Killian.”

“I believe I've already done that, but it's a task I'm always willing to revisit.”

She’s toeing a dangerous line, but it’s so easy to stretch her leg out to stroke his thigh with her boot and say, “But you haven’t even touched your donut.”

“I'm sure it's delightful.”

Emma slides her leg a little higher, seeking warmth almost unthinkingly, not thinking of anything at all, nothing but the flash changes in his expression.

“But, let me guess, you've had better?”

He stares at her.

“Better is one term for it, yes.”

Keeps staring.

“And another?”

She’s just dropped her leg back to the floor when his slips in between hers, curls around her ankle so they’re locked together.

“Fucking exquisite.”

Emma's laughter comes unthinkingly. It’s easy not to think about anything but the warmth of the donut she stuffs into her mouth. And the warmth of his leg. She can’t stop thinking about that, and she doesn’t want to. Honestly.

It’s easy to be honest when she isn’t thinking.

“Eat your donut, Killian, or I will,” she says around the last bite of hers.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. She feels it in her leg, which he releases with a sigh. After glancing at the text, he looks up at her, smiling.

“It's all yours, Lady Swan. Wanna take it to-go?”

She leans back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest. She’s cold again - Mama’s has definitely turned down the heat - and she shivers. Suddenly it doesn’t feel easy not to think. With the cold, thoughts of what he might be thinking about where this conversation was headed filter in, all the possible futures that _he_ might have entertained.

“Take it where?” she asks warily.

“Well, if you're up for it, back to the school so I can get my things?”

Emma bursts into laughter, mostly relieved and only _sort of_ frantic.

“You really did run out of there?”

He looks out the dirty window, his laugh embarrassed. “Alas, I'm a sore loser.”

“You'll get 'em next time, which speaking of…”

She doesn't have any pressing plans or timelines to be home but she’s still _thinking_ distances and futures, and right now he’s too close and she was too close to doing something stupid.

“You have to go?” Killian asks, trying to catch her gaze.

_Oh, buddy._

She grabs the donut and jumps out of her seat. “Going, going, gone,” she says, already halfway to the door. Emma tells herself she isn’t fleeing. It’s easy to lie when she’s thinking too hard, too fast, and much too loud in her head, but she doesn’t look back, and that speaks louder than anything else.

-

“You’re mad at me.”

Emma lifts her head to look at him.

“Just because I have no interest in going to your party doesn’t mean I’m mad at you. Maybe I’m just interested in…” She glances away from Victor as he places his hand on her locker. Too lazy to hold himself up any longer? Too hungover to stand? Over his crooked elbow, she sees Marian and nearly chokes as she tries to keep a serious tone. “Saving my teenage liver. You, of all people, should understand the importance of the liver.”

He doesn’t seem convinced at her emphatic nod, but Emma could be mistaken. He could just be leaning in because he can’t stand, not because he’s trying to get a closer look at her face. His eyes are a little bloodshot, too, now that she’s staring at them.

Victor grins. “Are you sure that’s not the only reason you don’t want to come? Perhaps, it’s not because of me. Maybe it’s someone else?”

Emma lifts both eyebrows and sucks in a breath…that she releases slowly when he says, “Marian won’t be allowed _near_ the game room next time,” because relieved sighs are just so stupidly obvious. She may not be the best actress in the world, as her fellow “actors” would totally confirm, but she isn’t going to show her whole damn hand, or her list, to Victor of all people.

“I never knew that my Mario Kart losses were so gossip worthy,” Emma says.

Victor leans in more and Emma pushes out an elbow to put some space in between them. If he falls, he’s going down by himself.

Quietly, probably trying to be suave and failing miserably, he says, “Yours wasn’t the only loss of the night, and others have vocalized their concerns.” He laughs at his own ‘joke’ and says, “Anna was loudest.”

“I’m sure,” Emma says and stifles a laugh when Marian quietly steps up behind Victor.

It’s mean, but watching Victor flail when she says, “Marian, Victor says you’re not allowed to play Mario Kart at his house anymore,” is worth the pain of him falling on her foot.

“No hard feelings, Victor,” Marian says genially.

Her smile, however, is more ‘victory lap’ than it is kind. Victor doesn’t notice.

“Thanks,” he says from his position on the floor.

Carefully kicking him aside, Emma steps up beside Marian. Together, they walk down the hall. Marian’s quiet for as long as it takes to leave Victor and Emma’s locker behind and then stops, offering Emma a smile when she turns in question.

“If you don’t want to go to his party because of me, I understand completely.”

“I’m not -” Emma frowns. “Do you think I’m mad at you, too?”

Marian lifts a shoulder, twisting her mouth to the side. “Maybe a little? You’ve been quiet all day.”

Sighing, Emma says, “Maybe I _was_ \- just a little, for like a couple of hours on Wednesday, but I’m over it.”

Marian nods. Emma bites at her lip - the longer Marian remains silent, the more her anxiety ratchets. She’s reached level: ‘my best friend’s mad at _me_ now’ when Marian says, “So...then what are you upset about?”

Nothing? Something? She hasn’t felt right all day, but that could honestly be anything - her approaching period, general post-day off “why do I have to return this hell?” grumpiness, test anxiety, project anxiety, her approaching period, next period...

It could be that last one, next period English and French back to back, but it isn’t like she’s scared to go to class. She isn’t shaking in her boots at the inevitability of seeing Killian since she ran out on him. But then again, that's the sticking point: she ran out on him like she was _scared_ and of what? Him? She doesn’t know, and Emma glances sideways at Marian, wondering what emotions she can see in Emma’s expression. She wants to ask, actually. Maybe if someone could tell her how she’s feeling and why, it’ll be easier to bypass said emotion and get rid of the unease playing havoc on her mind.

“I don’t know,” Emma says. She shrugs, dropping a grain of truth in her words. “It could be anything.”

Marian nods. “You do tend to get sulky when it’s that time.”

“What time?”

“Test time. You've done it for the past three years, you would think your mom wouldn’t need you anymore when it’s caught on so well.”

Emma gapes. She’d completely forgotten, then had remembered only long enough to suggest it to Ashley, and had promptly forgotten again.

She isn’t going to forget this time, not when Killian’s already on her mind and as all these things seem to go, she remembers enough to make her freak out. Inwardly, so Marian can’t read the “oh shit, I practically drank his blood” on her face or its follow up, “for fuck’s sake, don’t let him have anything.” And so she can’t possibly read the slightly ashamed “it isn’t like he’s a walking disease bomb” end to the thrilling trilogy, Emma laughs.

“Right. You’re so right, but anything for mom, right?”

Emma smiles, but Marian answers her with confused frown instead and a questioned, “Is that why you agreed to run that booth again?”

Emma jerks her head back. “Agreed to what?”

“Anything for mom, right?” Marian teases.

She stares over Emma’s shoulder at who Emma can _only_ guess.

“You mean, anything for _Ruby_ , that b-” An arm slings over Emma’s shoulder, heavy, warm and _familiar_. “Bitch,” Emma finishes, attempting to glare at Ruby when she leans her head on Emma’s shoulder.

“I love you, too, but Ashley and I are supposed to have lunch tomorrow, and you know sophomore schedules, so complicated and all. I can’t do it. You understand, right?”

“I understand that the Ashley excuse is getting old and I’m going to need you to find a new one -” Ruby starts to open her mouth, so Emma leans her head into Ruby, a gentle head-butt to shut her up. “- And Belle isn’t going to work either, or Marian.”

Ruby sighs loudly in Emma’s ear, so Emma pushes her away. Settling on her heels, Ruby pouts. “That’s, like, _all_ my excuses, Emma. And I suppose, ‘Granny needs me’ won’t work either.”

Emma huffs. “Try an honest request and maybe not just signing me up for things next time.”

“You’re grumpy and I’m terrible,” Ruby says.

“Ding, ding, ding. Step up to claim your award for pointing out the obvious.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma crosses her arms over her chest. She’s trying to be angry, but apparently it isn’t working out because Marian's laughing and Ruby pokes at her cheek like Emma isn't going to go Walking Dead on her and bite the offending limb off.

“Well, how’s this for an honest request? Emma, can you please do this for me because I’m a little stressed out and I’m trying to be a good mentor and a good student but I’m not like you. I can’t handle everything with the grace of a true princess.”

Ruby bats her eyelashes prettily while Emma groans. She’s going to be haunted by that stupid play for the rest of her life. Looking on the bright side of her long and weary rule, at least Ruby’s being honest.

“Alright, alright. Who am I working with?”

“No clue,” Ruby says quickly. She smiles widely _and_ brightly.

At least Ruby _was_ being honest.

Emma turns to Marian. She doesn’t even need to pose the question before Marian answers, “It’s Jefferson.”

“ _Bitch_.”

Ruby is smart not to laugh. “I love you, too, Emma?” she offers while Marian hums something that sound suspiciously like ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight?’

“Bitch,” Emma mutters in her direction, too.

An arm curls around hers. A hand fists into her shirt. Emma hates them both, vocally, but it’s drowned out by Ruby’s singing.

-

It must be Ruby’s ‘slit throat’ gesture when she drops Emma off at class that keeps him from his usual greeting. It’s certainly what keeps Emma from taking her seat right away.

“Emma!”

Aurora waves her over. Killian looks up, but Emma only catches a brief glimpse of his face as she turns towards Aurora.

“Tiana and I would love to keep working with you,” Aurora says cheerfully.

Emma can’t tell whether Aurora is fucking with her or not. She’s never struck Emma as a liar - or someone with a sense of humor. It must be genuine, then.

This would be the perfect way out if she needed one. However, working with Killian doesn’t make her head hurt so much when she has other things to worry about. Like having to sit through an hour in Jefferson’s company, who she doesn’t hate, actually. She just isn’t sure whether he’ll be pulling for friendly and polite or predatory and slightly unhinged.

She smiles at Aurora. “Thanks, but I think I should stick to my level. I don’t want to hold you back,” Emma says, gesturing back towards Killian.

What she means isn't _much_ different than what she says, just with the addendum that even Killian snorting at her words wouldn’t change her mind.

Emma would pick him any day (or night).

She swipes a hand down her face at her thoughts. She hopes that whichever telepath is listening in is enjoying her pain. Someone should.

Walking over to him is like ripping off a Band-Aid, painful for a moment and then relief when he doesn’t look upset. Still - ‘It’s better to have it _all_ out in the open than to keep it bottled up’ is what her mom would say, but then again her mom wouldn’t know how to keep a secret if her life depended on it.

“No smart comments about me abandoning you?” Emma asks.

“I came back,” he says, waving a hand around the room. “You were bound to do the same.”

He doesn’t sound so certain of that last part. It niggles at her, so she studies him, waiting for him to look away and confirm her suspicions. Killian’s gaze only slides away from hers when their teacher enters the room, and that confirms nothing for her. Confirms something for him. He’s smiling when she goes to take her seat.

“You just can’t stay away,” he says.

She doesn’t have enough time before their teacher calls them to attention to give him even the bullet point examples of why he is wrong about that one, so she sits on it throughout all of English, waiting for the perfect moment to relay Reasons A to Z...which she promptly forgets in the interim between English and French when he says, “I’m glad you turned them down.”

He goes quiet. Emma scrambles for a response, but he saves her from having to say a word.

“Not just because I’m sure everyone else is a level ahead of us. I just prefer your company.”

Killian saves her from having to respond to that too by starting up their daily chat, which is just as well. It takes her a shorter time to remember how to ask him the time of the day in French than it does for her mind to connect the dots in his expression.

It could’ve hit her like a slap in the face. Or a bulb bursting into light.

Instead it’s just like one moment he’s correcting her pronunciation like he knows more than her (neither of them know much of anything) and the next his finger pokes at her arm, “Pay attention, Emma,” and his smile says everything it’s been saying since before her list entered the equation.

“Emma, you’re staring,” he says.

She doesn’t jump. She doesn’t squeak. Instead she says, “Oh,” and stares a little longer until he ends up looking away, ears going red.

Dots connected, face slapped, light turned on - Killian likes her.

There’s no one around to decipher the expression on her face, and actually, Emma wouldn’t ask them to do it anyway. Sometimes, it’s better to keep these things bottled up - yes, _mom_ , it’s better to push them to the back of her mind where she can forget they even exist.

“We have another match this week,” Killian says.

Emma nods and pushes this information to the back of her mind, too.

-

**9:13: we lost SOOOOO badly omg**

**9:13: i think a few of the guys were crying**

**9:14: it was REALLY bad**

**9:16: anyway meet us at granny’s? if you’re done with your work?**

Emma looks down at her half answered problem set. A snack at Granny’s would probably help. Being in the company of someone other than her Prentice Hall Chem book would definitely help.

She starts to type off a text saying as much to Ruby, but is interrupted by her mom’s words in her head.

_Emma, here’s the thing about pushing things to the back of your mind. They always come back to haunt you._

“Thanks, mom,” she says and grabs her backpack.

Even still, even with those remembered words in her ears, even with Ruby’s texts on her mind and - she sighs - Killian on the brain, she deliberately sets out to go to Granny’s. Marian will be there and they’ll be able to cry about these problems together.

She sets out for Granny’s, but her feet end up at the doorstep of Mama’s instead.

Misery loves company, and that problem set is making her miserable anyway, she might as well join Killian in his.

He doesn’t have a plate in front of him. At least this time he’s retained some self-respect. He even brought his stuff with him this time, so he must’ve managed a better exit from the game, too, but not a better mood. His duffel is tucked between him and the (always) dirty window that he’s glaring out of.

“You’re not going to see anything out there,” Emma says as she’s walking towards his table. “I’ve tried.”

“Ah, so you heard about our spectacular loss and came to…” His glare breaks. He quirks an eyebrow at her. “Why did you come? A donut?”

He looks sincerely confused and she loses the quick reply at the tip of her tongue and is left with only the truth.

“Thought you could use the company.”

Killian blinks and shakes his head slightly. It takes him a moment to get the better of himself and if the back of her mind wasn’t already pushing to the forefront, it would be doing so now, pressing on her with her French class realization and reflecting back in the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it amazement in Killian’s expression.

Emma blinks and the wide eyes have eased into a crinkled smile.

“You came to make sure I actually ate the donut this time, didn’t you? Well, I did, and I enjoyed it. You’ve good taste, Emma.”

She returns the smile. “Actually, you were right before. I was on my way to Granny’s to get some help with my homework and I wanted a donut.”

He wags a finger at her. “That’s a lie. I know you, Swan. You would never risk bringing contraband food into Granny’s,” Killian says.

“I could eat it on the way,” Emma argues.

“And risk her sniffing it out?”

She puts her hands on her waist. “Oh, come _on_ , you’re being ridiculous. Go pout with your team at Granny’s. This isn’t captain-ly behavior,” Emma says.

“Captain-ly? That isn’t -” He takes a breath and frowning, says, “It was my fault. Again. I doubt they want to see me.”

Silence spills out between them and it makes Emma’s tongue itch to say something, her feet itch to move. Offering some kind of comfort would make sense, running would be smart.

She says, “I just came here to... well, I need to get this chem homework done so I’ll see you -”

“Chem? I took that last year. I still have my notes.”

He gives her a poker face, but he’s already given everything away in the hopeful lilt in his words. Emma leans back on her heels. Her back is starting to hurt from the textbook.

“So, what, Captain Cuts Classes, are your notes going to help me with this problem set?”

“I got a 4 on that AP,” Killian protests. Winking, he slides to the edge of his seat with a conspiratorial whisper, “And they don’t change the homework questions from year to year.”

“That’s cheating.”

“And who would I be to help the principal’s daughter cheat? Model citizen that I am, I would never.” Emma huffs, waiting for the inevitable. Killian doesn’t disappoint, and with a smirk he taps the table, rings clinking loudly on the plastic top, and says, “Other things, however, I am willing to discuss.”

“Just where would we discuss these things, then? Because I actually really do need help. _Chem_ help.”

“My house isn’t far,” Killian says. “I, mean, I could walk back and get the notes if you want me to.”

“That’ll take too much time. Let’s go,” Emma says.

She waves him out of his seat. Hefting the duffel on his shoulder, he follows her out the door. It only occurs to her that she didn’t get her donut when she’s already marching up the street.

Well, she wasn't in the mood for sweets anyway.

“You don’t even know where you’re going,” Killian says, stomping behind her until he can fall into step beside her.

“I do. My mom made me come when -”

“Oh, right.”

They keep silent for a while. He walks a lot straighter. It looks uncomfortable, but Emma doesn’t mention it. They’re close to his house. She can smell the seawater, which you can sort of smell from everywhere in Storybrooke when the wind is blowing right, but she remembers sitting in the pickup, watching as Killian hunched in the doorway beside his social worker, her dad’s hands in his pockets, her mom’s words filtering in here and there and practically breathing in seawater.

His house looks much the same. The kind of beat-up of a place well loved. The grass is years untrimmed, but worn seashells hang along the edges of the porch. It creaks when Emma walks up the three little stairs to his door. The jingling of Killian’s keys makes her turn to him. He hefts his bag a little higher, the added weight making him list towards her/

“Are you coming in?” he asks

“Are you going to make me stand out in the cold?”

It isn’t that cold with him standing so close to her, but that’s irrelevant to the question.

“That’s not what I meant.”

She knew what he meant, but it’s easy to sing a silly song to herself and just decide to stay when it’s just sharing a donut at a diner. His house is _his_ house.

And no doubt he’s thinking about what they’ve been skirting around for the past week because her mind can’t be the only one in the gutter. She can’t be the only one thinking of that treehouse. His eyes fall to her lips, all the confirmation she needs.

She retreats.

“Oh - I mean, if you want to be alone to mope, I understand,” Emma says.

_Darling you got to let me know._

“That wouldn’t be captain-ly of me, right?” Killian replies.

_Should I stay or should I go?_

“No, it wouldn’t,” Emma agrees. “And I might need you to translate.”

He grins, turning the key in the lock and opening up his door. It smells like seawater inside too, but it’s warm when she steps into the front hall, like the beach on a sunny day.

As he locks the door behind them, he says, “You can read my handwriting.”

“Yeah, but you can’t have gotten everything right and Stewart’s handwriting is a headache.”

Killian chuckles, moving past her towards the stairs. Emma hesitates, looking into the living room for any other signs of life.

“My guardian will be out for a while,” Killian calls down at her.  “She works late at the hospital.”

“Oh,” Emma says.

Taking the first step is the hardest. Her bag threatens to drag her to the floor, and by the time she gets to the top of the stairs, her back is screeching vicious curses. She hurries to follow him and drops her bag to the floor besides his before she even surveys the room he’s brought her to.

She should text someone where she is, just in case she gets murdered.

If she texts someone where she is, she might still get murdered.

At least, Killian’s bedroom doesn’t _look_ like a death trap. It’s different than she expected. Neater. Emptier. There are a few seascapes on the walls, but that’s the only decoration besides a bamboo plant growing in the window by his desk. His floor is carpeted and he’s already kicked off his shoes. After a moment, Emma does the same.

“The desk is all yours, Emma,” he says. “Let me get my notes.”

She bends down to open up her bag and pull out her notes. A creaking makes her look up.

“You have a file cabinet in your room,” Emma says.

The metal hooks of the files scrape the sides as he drags them backward and forward, searching. He doesn’t look up.

“It’s very useful. Keeps everything organized.”

“Right. You sound like my mom, you know.”

This makes him look at her. Very seriously, he says, “Your mother’s a brilliant woman, Emma. I appreciate the comparison.”

Now, he sounds like her dad.

“Please don’t talk about my mom like that,” Emma begs, those 8 words said more dramatically than her lines in the play.

(No need for Ruby or Killian, she can haunt herself with that stupid role just fine.)

Killian falls over the file cabinet, gripping both sides to keep himself from sliding to the floor as he laughs. It shakes in his grip.

“Alright, alright. I’ll save all my compliments for you, Lady Swan,” he _somehow_ manages to get out.

Emma tears her books from her backpack and walks over to plop down in his desk chair. It creaks on its wheels - does every damn thing in his house make the same noise? As she’s flipping through the pages to the right chapter, she says, “That isn’t what I meant.”

Her refusal to look at him doesn’t stop him from staring at her. She can feel his gaze on the back of her neck, and then she feels the paper tapping her on the shoulder. She grabs it, just glancing at the top.

Chapter 7 Problems. Grade: _B+._

“Great work, Mr. Jones,” Emma reads. She whistles and swivels slightly to look at him. “Stewart must like you.”

“I am rather likable,” Killian says.

He probably wants her to agree. She doesn’t _disagree._ He’s charming. Clever. Gentlemanly upon occasion.

He’s staring at her lips.

“I’m sure that’s what you like to think.”

She turns her gaze back to his notes. He understood a couple of the questions she was stuck on and oh, they wrote the same wrong answer for question five.

“If you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t be here.”

Emma looks at him, flicks her gaze back down to the notes and then back up.

At last, she says, “I like your chem notes. They’re really helpful. I’m actually going to be able to get some sleep tonight. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’m always happy to help. All you have to do is ask.”

She nods. Better to say nothing than something she might regret. That’s always the way to handle a situation where she catches herself thinking of all the things she hasn’t asked of him, and all the things she could.

“I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back in a few. Feel free to copy all my answers.”

Emma does. While he disappears down the hall, she grabs a pen from his desk and starts to flip through his answers for Chapters 1-12. She only needed Chapter 7 today, which, he’s right about Stewart being predictable if he knew they were on that without even asking her. She won’t have time to copy all the answers but she doesn’t just want to copy, anyway. She’ll need to know why for the AP, so she takes her time, writing down the answers in her own words when she feels she understands them enough to do so.

By the time he returns, she has all of them done and she’s just swiveling around in his chair to do a real survey of his room. He has two water bottles in his hand, and he tosses her one.

Emma catches it with a quick “thanks” and has half the bottle down before she notices him staring at her. More accurately, staring at the water bottle against her lips. He’s concentrating too hard, so it isn’t Emma’s fault when she chokes and spills the other half other water bottle down her shirt. She’s just...distracted.

Killian tugs her to her feet and she’s going to kill him for going all movie moment on her and taking his shirt off to dry her. After the water stops making her shiver, she’ll explain all the reasons why he needs to not do that, beginning and ending with Reason R: Ruby and her movie moment senses, which are no doubt tingling right now.

She’ll do all that after she addresses _this_.

“That was -” Killian starts.

“I have a question.”

He steps back from her, leaving her with his shirt clutched to her chest. It’s warm. She holds it tight.

Killian looks at her warily before he answers, “Ask away.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Thinking?”

He asks it like he’s never had a thought in his life, the response _too_ confused for it to be anything but manufactured, and his gaze hasn’t strayed from her face. Emma’s gaze strays, moves over his chest and his stomach - he didn’t get hit this match because there are no bruises forming. Moves lower, down to the waist of his sweats and the answer to her question.

“Emma. I wasn’t _purposely_ thinking anything,” he swears.

She hums agreeably. Cold water spilling down her shirt should’ve cooled her off, but she’s thinking the same thing now that she was in that split second between noticing his gaze and choking on the water in her mouth.

The same thing he was thinking.

Emma grabs his arm and pulls him into her when she falls back into the chair. It’s kind of the perfect position for this. She’s at just the right height.

“Emma.”

She looks up at him, lets him go so she can put both hands on his waistband and tug lightly at the elastic.

“ _I_ have a question,” he says.

“Ask away.”

“Is this a pity blowjob?”

His tone is sharp. There are wrong answers here, but Emma doesn't need help figuring out the right one. It’s the one that’s flitted in and out of her mind since he left her on top of Victor’s treehouse sink.

“No, this is an ‘I might be interested in tasting you, too’ blowjob.”

Killian swallows: test passed with flying colors, red in his cheeks, blues lighting in his eyes.

“Condom, Emma,” he says.

She blanches. She’d forgotten that. Recovering, she says, “Well, tasting rubber. Yum.”

“They're in the top drawer.”

He nods at his desk. Emma chooses not to comment on why he’d have them in such an easy to reach location because just thinking about it is enough to make her want to run.

The plastic wrapper feels familiar in her hands from too many exercises done for her mother’s benefit. There has to be something fucked up about that, but she can’t put her finger on it. She presses her forehead to his stomach instead, the fingers of her empty hand holding his waistband tight.

His stomach moves against her, in and out with each breath. There’s a lot of heat between them, and not all of it his.

“So you’re ‘feeling’ it?” he asks.

She laughs against his stomach. His minty smell is much stronger post shower. He even still feels towel damp. She can imagine him rushing out the shower to return to her side.

(Emma has a wild imagination.)

“Oh my god, do we both have that stupid thing memorized?” she murmurs, looking down at his bare feet.

“Is that a trick question? Because I’m going to be completely honest with you, Emma, I had that memorized the first time I read it.”

Unsurprising. It’s Killian, after all.

“And I completely forgot I wrote it.”

“How could you forget writing something like that?”

Another easy to answer question.

“It was a joke.”

“And it isn’t anymore?”

This one’s a little harder, but Emma makes do with a, “Well, no, not when I’m about to get through number three.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so mechanical,” Killian says and lets out a deep breath, his stomach rolling in.

Emma shrugs.

“You’re right. I don’t. It doesn’t have to sound like anything at all.”

Awkward phrasing. He’s better at the innuendos than her, but she’s always been more about actions anyway. And right now, she wants to kiss him and since she can't reach his lips...

The first kiss to his stomach is weird. She avoids the patch of hair on his belly because she’s not a goddamn cat, but she doesn’t expect him to laugh or for him to reach out for her hand. Emma does it again, kisses him hard just so she has something to focus on that isn’t the rumbling of his stomach as he laughs.

Killian’s tightened grip on her hand would’ve been focus enough, but the groan when her tongue slides along his abdomen is what she zeroes in on.

She knows now why he was so obsessed with making her moan. It’s incredibly heady, hearing the sound drawn from his throat while she sucks on his skin. Fuck, it’s a turn on, knowing that all it takes is a kiss to make his breathing labor.

So, Emma keeps kissing him there and as much as she wants to move her hand to her own self, she keeps it on his waistband, the other tangled tight in his.

Every squeeze of his hand feels like punches of heat, and she’ll burn up before she even takes his pants off. She doesn’t want that, not when she can sort of feel him brushing her chest, harder than he was before.

“Emma, I have an infinitely better idea than this,” he says.

She keeps kissing him for a moment. When she’s satisfied with the tightening of his stomach and the redness of his skin, she says, “And what's that?”

“We skip number three and do number four instead.”

He pulls her to her feet again. Emma’s eyes fly open, question already at her lips when he answers, “I’d prefer to taste you too, but it is up to you. It’s your list.”

It _is_ her list and number 3 was one of the shittier additions. She’d only wanted to throw something on there that wasn’t ‘real’ sex (despite everything her mom said about it _definitely_ being ‘real’ sex).

Killian kisses her - a hungry, ‘I haven’t touched you in too long,’ kiss that Emma isn’t sure she’ll ever get used to even if he kisses her like that a thousand times. Ten thousand. Forever.

Forever feels like a good idea with his mouth on hers.

She breaks the kiss, his disappointed sigh almost making her forget her words. She leans back to look in his eyes. “You make a really good argument,” she says.

“Do I? Should I reiterate for good measure?”

“In a moment,” Emma says.

Her shirt is clinging to her chest and now warm, the moisture is just too uncomfortable. She steps out of the circle of his arms to tug it up and over her head. Looking around, she spots his shirt where she dropped it on the floor. She bends to pick it up and leaves them both on his chair.

His hands join with her waist again, tugging her back into him.

She can understand why his kisses are always so hungry now. Even through the dense fabric of her jeans, she can feel just how much he wants her.

It’s a little terrifying, actually, if she’s thinking about it.

Emma doesn’t want to think too much so she lets him spin her around.

“You can, uh, reiterate now -” She shakes her head. Honestly, this clever innuendos thing just isn’t for her. “Kiss me?”

She expects him to move in fast, but he goes slowly, tilting her chin up to stare at her for beats one, two, three, more than her unthinking brain can count. By the time he kisses her, she’s forgotten the fear, overcome with relieved annoyance instead. His mouth moves slow over hers. He’s not exactly trying to distract her with it, so she doesn’t feel any trepidation as he walks her towards his bed.

Killian breaks the kiss.

“You should be on top,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. She pushes him back on the bed, about to climb over to kiss him again when she remembers the condom.

“We have to be safe,” she says to his stupid laugh when she picks it up off the floor. Asshole.

“I know. It’s just - I’m just…”

Killian trails off as she starts to unbutton her jeans and the fear takes hold again. Quickly, she says, “You have such a way with words. You should submit something to the magazine.”

“That’s a good idea. Certain events _have_ called out to my inner poet. I’ve had ideas for an Ode to Victor’s Treehouse, or a Shakespearean sonnet though that’s fourteen lines not ten, so we’ll have to add a few more things to that list.”

Emma steps out of her jeans and can’t be bothered to pick them up off the floor, too busy moving back towards his lounging form.

“Fucking shut up -”

She covers the rest of her curse with his mouth. He’s chuckling and she’s laughing and the kiss becomes more like a mishmash of lips than anything that can be remotely called a kiss.

Emma ends up on top of him, bare legs pressed to either side of his. His sweats radiate heat.

“I could be getting through numbers 3 _and_ 4 but…” She pats his thigh. “These are in the way.”

“I’m glad I’m one of the chores you’re knocking off your to-do list,” he jokes, his words jagged with every sharp intake of breath.

Emma moves off of him. Doing this completely sober is such a different experience because she doesn’t have the alcohol to keep her head from running away with her. All she has is his smile - unbelievably soft as he pushes his sweatpants off. She keeps her eyes on his face. Killian’s dimpled smile, now _unbelievably_ shy is exactly what she needs right now.

“I know it’s a To Do list, but you don’t have to _do_ it all at once,” he says, quiet but insistent.

Translation: they can stop at any time. Emma knows this.

“I know but I’m horny,” Emma says.

‘I want this,’ probably would’ve been a classier phrasing but she’s not worried about that anymore. They’re way past that.

She shrugs her thoughts away and realizes she’s missed something he’s said when he taps her on the knee.

“Yeah?” she asks when he moves closer.

“Are you with me?” he asks.

“I’m with you.”

“That’s good. I like having you with me.”

Emma doesn’t attempt a response. She doesn’t know how she missed this for so long because it’s so _expected_ , the way Killian just casually admits that he likes having her beside him. He _likes_ her and even when everything he does confirms it - his brightened expression each time she showed up at Mama’s, each time she shows up in class, each time she responds to one of his greetings in the hallway - still, with him practically glowing at her right now and his fingers drawing shapes on her calve, it feels like a surprise.

At least, this isn’t a surprise, when he kisses her and firmly grasps the band of her underwear, slipping his fingers beneath. He doesn’t go farther (with his fingers; his tongue is a different story). He doesn’t slide between the patch of her hair down to where her body is already shifting in memory of his finger stroking her insides.

Killian waits for her to nudge him forward.

Instead, she presses him backwards on the bed, forcing him to let her go altogether. Emma has her underwear in her fist before she realizes that he’s completely naked.

“Shit,” she says and looks away.

“I’m not sure whether that’s a good sign or not.” Killian laughs, pulling at her closed fist until she drops her underwear in his hand. “We don’t want to lose these.”

“Your room is too clean for that,” Emma says drily. Peering at him through narrowed eyes, she says, “You could’ve warned me.”

“You told me to take them off.”

“Still.”

Emma pouts until he pulls her into him.

“Kiss me?” he asks.

Is that what she sounded like when she asked him to do the same? Hesitant? Needy?

Emma kisses him and at first that’s all it is until they fall, lying down on the bed. His pillows are too pushed to the sides for them to reach and she’s too busy memorizing the feeling of his lips to reach for one. She doesn’t need it, really, and not having it makes her have to reach for something else to fist her hands in. The sheets are too tight to the bed. All she has is his skin.

Her first touch is hesitant. The second is needy.

Somehow in between kisses, his hand finds itself kneading her spine and he presses his thigh between her legs. The first rock of her hips forward makes her back away, embarrassed, but he doesn’t stop kissing her and moves his leg a little higher, an invitation.

Emma’s half humping his thigh when she realizes she’s too turned on to keep this up. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she pushes him away. “We need to -”

Killian is quick on the uptake. “Where’s the condom?”

“Uh.”

Twisting farther out of their embrace, he searches along the bed until she hears the plastic crinkle in his hand. “Found it.”

She watches him put it on because she’s avoided looking at him since she first noticed his nakedness.

Well, it’s a dick.

Even the porn she’s watched - on a dare from Ruby on Ruby’s laptop at Ruby’s house because she sure as hell wasn’t having that internet history attached to her IP address - doesn’t give her a proper frame of reference for size or girth or…

What are dick standards anyway?

As far as she knows - and she knows far too much, he’s big. As to what she feels about that? She’s already answered that one. She’s horny as fuck, an appropriate phrasing if there ever was one.

“Emma, you’re staring,” Killian says.

He sounds worn out, but his eyes are bright when she looks him in the face. Blues lighting his eyes, and red burning in his cheeks - and lips.

Hers feel chapped. She licks at them.

“You act like I do this _so_ often with the amount of times you pointed it out,” Emma says.

“You don’t,” Killian says. “Which is why I’m pointing it out.”

He keeps his tone carefully neutral but he’s off his game or something. His mouth keeps twitching upwards.

“Laugh it up, buddy,” Emma says.

“If I have your permission,” he says and starts to chuckle.

The sound chokes out quickly when she reaches out for him. All she can feel is the rubber. It’s a disappointing feeling, but the heat of him is not and when he jumps in her hand, she doesn’t even feel like laughing.

Really, she just wants to feel his tongue on her again.

“Emma, I want to do this properly,” he says.

“You can worship my body another time,” Emma says.

“That’s, ah, not what I meant, but it’s good to know that there’ll be another time.”

Emma rolls her eyes, blushing despite herself. “Mark it in your calendar.”

“What I meant is that we’re doing number 4 right? And if you - if you keep stroking me like that it’ll turn into number 8 instead.”

“Are you that close already?”

“How close are you?” Killian asks.

His tone is accusing, but he’s right. She knows exactly how he feels.

Emma gathers herself, empties her head, focusing on the way he feels in her hand, the heat against her palm, the heat between her legs.

In a (not really, can’t even be mistaken for) smooth motion, she gets herself up on his chest, puts one of the seascapes in his view, his dick obscuring the ship moored at the dock. She’d laugh but he’s breathing on her, waiting for her to say go.

Emma wraps her hand around his base, a little unsure until he moves her closer and licks at her clit. Her body wastes no time in melting for him, so she wastes no time in licking up from the joining of her hand and his dick to the head.

The rubber makes it taste like she’s sucking on a glove, but the weight in her mouth is nicer than she expects it to be, nice _of course_ being the appropriate word for having a dick stretching her mouth open. Wording aside, she honestly expected to hate this or just be bored by it, but Killian’s dick slides over her tongue and she likes the feeling when she takes more of him in - and not just the way he tongues her when she does so.

It’s kind of mindless, bobbing her head back and forth, sucking him harder with every thrust into her mouth. She uses her hand to keep him from thrusting too far, but if his tongue wasn’t making her _so_ mindless, she’d attempt more. Because every time he slides towards her throat, his hips jerk and his hands get a little tighter on her thighs, and it feels _good_. The firmed touch, his solid, warm hands holding her to him so she can’t squirm away when the pressure of his tongue becomes too much of what she wants - it feels better than good.

When his mouth leaves her for a moment too long, she sucks hard. Just to see what he’ll do. Not because she’s desperate.

She’s a little desperate.

He says her name just once, a broken sound and Emma would never admit it, even under duress, even if her goddamn life depended on it, but she nearly chokes on the length in her mouth because his tongue send shivers up her spine and the heat isn’t like a punch - it’s a meteor crashing her system to pieces.

She can’t keep sucking him deep anymore, not after that, so she switches it up, licking the head hard and wrapping him in her mouth in equal measure. He seems to like it, but she stops being able to tell when she does something he _really_ likes right around the time that he starts sucking on her clit. She loses all sense except touch, and then she loses that too when she comes.

Killian’s still hard when he lets her go and breathes out, “Fucking exquisite.”

She’s glad she doesn’t have him in her mouth when he says it because she would’ve definitely choked on him this time. Or bitten him. Both of which are injuries she never wants to have to explain.

His fingers move over her still throbbing folds. “Emma,” he asks, seeking permission.

At the same time that she takes him back into her mouth, he slips one finger inside her. She forgets trying to keep any kind of rhythm with licks and sucks, just listens to his groans and does more of what makes his dick jump in the grip of her hand and mouth.

“Fuck. Emma I’m going to -”

She hollows out her cheeks and swallows as much of him as she can. He’s practically touching the back of her throat when he says her name again, his dick pulsing in her mouth. His finger keeps stroking her so she keeps sucking, needing the focus, needing not to lose herself just yet.

It’s too much, but he doesn’t seem to care. As soon as she lets his dick pop wetly out of her mouth, he drags her backwards and uses both his tongue and finger to send her past the point of losing herself.

She’s a mess, as per usual (if three times can be considered ‘usual’) when she comes down from her second orgasm. Emma manages to be careful when climbing off of him which a feat that she should be awarded for.

“That’s exhausting,” she says, tracing the shape of her mouth with her tongue.

She has the same feeling when she’s been smiling or frowning too long. Sucking dick for too long, now to be added to that list.

He doesn’t respond.

“Killian? Killian, are you with me?”

“Aye, aye, Emma,” he says. “Just give me a moment.”

She concedes to this because she feels as overwhelmingly worn out as he sounds. “I’ll give you a minute and then I need a towel and a toothbrush. Rubber tastes disgusting.”

“I know, sorry,” he says, sitting up.

Something squelches and he curses, and Emma’s about to laugh until he looks back at her.

“I’m going to have to wash these sheets tonight,” he says.

It’s not his words that make her pause but the look he gives her.

“Killian, you’re staring.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

He keeps staring and you’d think she’d be used to it, right? Right? Wrong.

She’s contemplative when he disappears to the bathroom, gathering her things together as best she can when she’s too aware of the wetness on her skin and the time. She has half an hour before her return home will warrant her parent’s notice - and she has three annoyed text messages from Ruby and two of concern from Marian to deal with.

Her contemplation keeps her mostly silent when he hurries her to the bathroom, wrapped in his still damp towel so she can brush her teeth and fix her hair. She doesn’t waste time looking through his bathroom, only notices the obvious that it smells like mint and his mirror is still too fogged for her really do much about her appearance.

She dresses in the bathroom as well and when she makes her way back to his room, she’s packed and ready to go.

Killian hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on. The casual ease with which he leads her down the stairs to his doorway makes it easy for her to say her goodbye.

She doesn’t remember what she says even moments after, when she’s racing up the street with her bag weighing heavy on her back. She doesn’t remember a thing.


	4. i’d be chatting on the interweb, maggots prey upon the living dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as I know some readers are bothered by it, the beginning of this chapter has mentions of teen pregnancy in it

Emma’s bothered.

No, it’s more than that. She feels _off_ , her world all at a tilt and she’s still staring it down at the same angle. It’s not quite topsy-turvy yet, but it seems to be heading there fast.

It starts with the lie.

It’s a good lie, a solid one that she is able to pull off with an “I fell asleep while doing the homework,” when Marian asks her about the chem questions at the beginning of class and an “I really wanted to join you at Granny’s, too. Fucking chem,” when Ruby chastises her for her no show during their morning free period.

They accept it easy, so she shouldn’t feel uneasy at all. Except her stomach feels like it’s been set adrift on the ocean, uneasy waves making her middle jump every time she thinks about those words she can’t remember and the moments before, when Killian had his hand on her back while he led her out his house, when he smiled at her and she lost all sense of direction except the one pointing her way back home.

“I’ve never seen you look so murderous, Emma. I hope that’s not directed at me,” Jefferson says.

She blinks. Maybe this is what she needs. The distraction of Jefferson’s...concern? Honestly, she can’t tell behind his smile. She’s been pulled in by that grin too many times before, when she was young and naive about boys with patched hats, crooked smiles, and a penchant for mad plans.

“You have seen me look this murderous,” she reminds him. “Remember that time I punched you in the face?”

He steeples his fingers like a goddamn supervillain and leans back in his chair. “‘Remind me,’ would be a stupid response here, wouldn’t it?” His eyes look red. It’s only 11:00 in the morning, he shouldn’t be high already.

“Sarcasm isn’t going to do you any favors today. I just want to get this over with, alright?” Emma says.

It’s ruder than she means to be but, oh well, she can’t change that. Can’t change how strained her nerves feel as she surveys their booth and realizes that it’s not _just_ the safe sex booth, no, she’s been volunteered for the ‘What to Do If You _Aren’t_ Safe’ booth.

She hates Ruby. Fucking honestly.

“We shouldn’t have much of a turnout, since tomorrow’s the testing. They’re already too psyched out by that to come here and find out the worst that might occur if things don’t come up squeaky clean. And honestly, I think we’ve seen enough diseased dicks in science class to last a lifetime.”

Emma walks around the table and takes her seat beside him. “I hope you’re right, though I have no idea what science class you were in. I took Bio, too.”

“But you took it with Dr. Jake. I had Mr. Hyde.”

“Oh god, you were his last class before they fired him. I’m sorry,” Emma says, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. Mr. Hyde was a “deranged soul,” the kindest terms her mother could use when referring to the only teacher she ever had to have physically removed from the school. Her dad’s pained grunts were less kind, but to Mr. Hyde’s credit, “he could pack a mean punch.”

“It’s cool. At least the school never has to have a ‘Dangers of Drugs’ month. All they have to do is plaster his picture around the halls.”

“Says the stoner,” Emma mutters.

His voice is stoner-wise when he says, “Pot only makes me high. It doesn’t make me think throwing live frogs off the roof of the school is a good idea.”

She twists in her seat to look at him better. “Live frogs.”

“He told us the dead ones smelled too awful,” Jefferson assures her.

Emma laughs. “Well, even people like Hyde have their limits.”

They fall into a silence. Or rather, silence falls around them as the gym empties of even the students bored enough to spend their free period in the pink and yellow gloom the gym has become in its final week. Even the streamers look down, and they’re just streamers.

“Do you think I could get away with doing my homework here?” Jefferson asks. “Or will your mother kill me?”

“Kill you for volunteering here _and_ doing your work at the same time? Jeff, are you ready for your medal of honor?”

“I’m not the medal type,” Jefferson says. “But I will accept rewards in the form of double stuffed Oreos.”

Emma laughs, her stomach rumbling in a way that is decidedly pleasanter than its earlier motions. She looks around the empty gym again and says, “I’m going to run to the lunchroom and grab a snack. Want something?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

She looks at his red eyes again and shakes her head. If a stoned Jeff doesn’t want to eat or even ask for a warm tea, then her world _must_ be sliding out beneath her feet. She’ll have to find something to hang onto.

As she’s walking towards the lunchroom, Emma settles on her mother as that something to keep her grounded. There’s a cheery poster on the wall, announcing the prize for the testing raffle, an iPad in the color of the winner’s choosing, although the one pictured wouldn't make anyone want to win, in its pink, unicorn stickered glory. She’d taken a picture of the one Emma had gifted to her after Regina’s last comments on her “ _unique_ run of the school. Never thought I’d see the day when a Safe Sex Drive would get the Lisa Frank treatment. Speaking of, where are the sparkling streamers, Principal Blanchard?”

The unicorn stickers sparkled on her mother’s iPad. Emma had made sure of that.

She’s in and out of the lunchroom in record time, her mood improved. She isn’t naive to think that nothing can bring her back down, but the idea of winning an iPad just for making sure (praying, hoping) she’s “squeaky clean” is enough to occupy the space where lingering touches and Killian’s smile was driving her mad.

Jefferson’s focused on a sketch - she forgot they offered AP Studio Art - but he has enough sense of his surroundings to say, “You didn’t miss anyone. I think we’ll be good for the rest of the hour.”

So, maybe Emma was wrong in her initial assessment. Maybe he _isn’t_ high.

“Hey, do you think this looks alright?” he asks as she starts to pull out her own work.

She wasn’t going to _ask_ him what he was drawing because that always used to annoy her when she used to draw with him, back in those days of naiveté. But she _was_ curious, so she’s happy for the invitation.

Happy being the quickly fading emotion when she gets a good look at his drawing. “Is that a sonogram?”

Jefferson taps his fingers on the table and says, “Yep. Her name’s Grace.”

“Her?”

Emma looks at the shaded blob again.

“Wouldn’t it be some kind of irony if I was running the consequences of unsafe sex booth with a baby on the way? Or would it just be called fitting?”

His joke obviously doesn’t get the intended effect, although Emma has no idea what effect that could possibly have been. Laughter?

Quickly, he says, “I don’t think it’s a consequence by the way. Grace is -”

She doesn’t exactly process it slow, but she sure sounds like it when she says, “Your baby. You’re going to have kid.”

“Yes,” he answers.

“Who knows?”

“Besides you, you mean? All our teachers. Your mom. Vic.”

Well, her world just tilted a bit more.

“The baby shower is in January if you want to come. Rose and I would appreciate it.”

Emma picks her jaw up off the floor long enough to say, “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there,” but doesn’t achieve the full effect of being totally calm and collected or adult about the whole situation.

Emma’s 17. He’s 18. Honestly, she isn’t sure what the hell being an adult about him having a baby - a _Grace_ \- would entail.

“I guess this knocks you out of the running for the iPad?” Emma says.

He laughs so hard that he ends up bending over the table before them, pushing it forward with his weight. Emma pats him on the back. At least she knows how to be a teen about it.

-

Breathing deep and thinking of her mother is supposed to be helpful in this situation, since that’s who’s supposed to keep Emma steady right now, but -

Killian has his feet propped up on the grated bottom of her chair, and more importantly, he doesn’t seem to want to move them even when she sits down and gives him her death glare. And it usually works so well.

She’s never seen him so cheerful ten minutes before a test. Emma could poke at the deep dimples in his cheeks if she felt like it. He probably wouldn’t even mind.

It’s like a simple blowjob has made him a changed man.

She rolls her eyes, and her stomach rolls with them. “Do you want me to pass this test or not?” she asks without looking at him.

“Are you saying that my feet have left your score hanging in the balance? Emma, I think that fate had already been decided long before I stretched out my legs. Did you study?”

Oh, so he really wants to be an asshole today. She shoots him another glare before snapping, “I didn’t have the _time_. I was doing chem,” because ‘I was doing _you_ ,’ wouldn’t be particularly appropriate for the setting.

“Sorry,” he says and pulls his feet back from her desk.

The pretend remorse is better than nothing, she supposes, but she can see the smile peeking through even when he turns away to dig in his backpack. The dimples don’t disappear until someone walks between them and Emma remembers they’re in class.

To be clear and honest, it isn’t a matter of anyone seeing them interact that keeps her gaze focused firmly on her notebook, but she really didn’t have much time to study and now that she’s really thinking about it - oh fuck, she’s going to fail.

“Hey,” Killian says, feet back on her desk to draw her attention, no doubt. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You’ll do as well as you always do, Emma.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

To be clear and honest, what keeps her gaze focused on her notebook this time is a matter of hiding whatever strange look crosses her ‘very expressive’ face, not that she’s freaking out about the test any longer.

Whatever, she’ll pass or she’ll fail.

She hopes he’s right about her passing, though and keeps that hope up until their teacher lays the test down on her desk. It goes by in a blur of carefully paragraphed analysis and rushed conclusions. Her head feels empty by the time it’s over, but Emma tosses him a smile as she hands it in.

He _was_ right.

The thumbs up he gives her is nearly too much. Distracting enough that she misses the beginning of their teacher’s dictation on their latest project assignment.

She doesn’t miss the smile on his face though - doesn’t miss it at all later when she’s suffering through her Stats homework and knowing that if she wanted, she could probably just text him for a meetup at Mama’s and see it again. Probably.

Or she could just text him.

**8:32: I wondered how many numbers it would take before you decided mine was worth texting**

**8:33: lucky number 4 ;)**

Emma stares at the screen and he might not be able to see her blush, but she can feel it and that’s worse in a way because she’s _alone and blushing_.

_Fuck it._

“That’s not /my/ lucky number,” she types.

His response is slow. Measured maybe? Or just surprised?

Deciphering moods is much easier when you can see the person’s expression. But then they can see your expression as well, and it’s probably for the best that he isn’t there to point it out. Probably best that she’s alone and blushing.

**8:37: and what is then?**

She doesn’t have to think to type off her reply of, “9.5. send me those notes? ;)”

She can practically see his frustration written in the _typing..._ every time it pauses and he ostensibly thinks over what he’s started to say in response.

**8:41: is that by fedex or post that you’d like them sent?**

She snorts and types off her reply of “/email/ is fine,” before turning back to her Stats homework.

Emma ignores the first buzz of her cell, undoubtedly a snarky reply. Ignores the second and third, probably the emails coming in, but the fourth has her twisting away from her calculator to look at his responses.

She was right about the first three but the fourth - and the fifth that comes in as she’s reading the fourth - text she’d never have guessed.

**8:52: wait did you leave? you can't just start a conversation and leave. that's just impolite**

**8:53: but honestly, come back. I'd much rather talk to you than anything else**

“Don’t you have homework to do?” she types back. After a second, she adds, “My conversation is not that interesting.”

**8:56: ah there you are, I knew that you couldn't resist an honest plea. you don't give yourself enough credit, I'm sure you can find /many/ interesting things to discuss**

She can imagine him smirking knowingly as she reads his response. Poking at her side, trying to see whether he can get a smile out of her rather than a glare. He’d win this round - there’s a smile tugging at her lips when she replies, “Not sure whether this is your poor attempt at sexting or…”

**8:58: not an attempt. that you'd think I'd stoop to that level hurts me, Emma.**

**8:59: how much are you wishing for a zombie apocalypse?**

She quirks an eyebrow at the weirdly out of the blue text and types back, “Not at all???”

**9:00: you've made enough references to it that I'd assume you already have your plan in place**

Not so out of the blue, then.

“Oh, so you weren’t confused by them - you sure looked it.”

“When we were at Mama’s I mean.”

**9:02: not confused by that, no. but never mind that, tell me your plan, emma. i know you have one**

_Never mind that._ If there’s one way to make her curious, it’s to deny that there’s anything to be curious about. It must tie in to her inability to back down from her challenge, or come from spending too much time with her father and Graham at the station while they detailed just how they’d tracked down that stolen geranium (an actual case that Belle’s dad had brought to them).

“You have to read between their words, Emma.”

She thinks hard, licking at her lips as she types, “holing up at the animal shelter. everyone’s going for the sheriff’s station so that’s out and assuming that the virus doesn’t transfer between species, i should be good and in good company. collect friends and family along the way, weaponry we can get from graham, and there’s food at the shelter already because dad uses it to store some from the food drives.”

**9:04: you’ve put a lot of thought into this.**

For a moment, she can’t tell whether he’s teasing or not. It shouldn’t make her stomach jump, the thought that he might think her weird, but it’s just never something that ever occurred to her.

Emma can feel her world slipping again, and this time she feels like she’s slipping too.

**9:05: my plan is not nearly as formed. maybe you can help me with that someday**

To say she feels relief would be admitting something she knows she doesn’t yet understand, so she just says, “How about after i finish stats. btw, what were you confused by?”

**9:06: well nothing gets past you does it.**

She grins. “That’s not an answer. come on, buddy, spit it out. we’re all friends here.”

**9:07: are we? i didn’t know you felt that way, emma. I’m touched.**

She merely sends him a tired emoticon. He gets the hint.

**9:09: you were genuinely concerned. it was a bit unexpected**

“oh.”

**9:11: now that i’ve killed the conversation, i should let you get back to your homework**

She’s halfway to typing out a response for him to come back when he cuts her off.

**9:12: i do expect help with my apocalypse plan after you’ve finished, however.**

Emma’s face is starting to hurt from grinning. “You’ll be asleep by then.”

**9:13: wake me up. i’m sure my dreams won’t be as pleasant**

“As the zombie apocalypse? you’re right there’s nothing more pleasant than your neighbors trying to eat you.”

**9:14: talking to you is**

Alone and blushing again. What an almost predictable turn of events.

“oh, go to bed, romeo.”

**9:15: i prefer killian. goodnight, emma**

She turns her phone away, but can’t stop glancing over at it every couple of minutes. After half an hour of this, she gives up and turns it off altogether, stuffing it underneath her pillow so she can finish her work.

It doesn’t help that much.

_Oh no, I’ve made a mistake_ , doesn’t begin to cover it as she glances at her pillow, her hand trembling on her pen, itching to drop it and dig for her phone instead.

Is this how crushes start?

Or do they start on the front porch of your bang buddy’s house? Or further back, in their bedroom, in a treehouse, in a classroom?

She doesn’t give a fuck if Ruby’s movie moment senses are tingling. She drops her face to her desk anyway, groaning loudly.

“Emma, do you need a break?” her mother calls up the stairs.

A break would do her some good. The farther away from her phone she is, the less likely she is to dive for it. The less likely she is to embarrass herself, all alone and blushing in her bedroom at the mere thought of a stupid text.

-

Emma wipes a hand over her brow and smiles, admiring Graham’s fortitude as he herds kids in and out of the hospital. As soon as she gets a chance, she pushes past a group of teens and slips in beside him.

“She roped you into this, too?”

“Every year,” Graham confirms. “Or half year.”

“Biannual, I believe is the term.”

He grins down at her before marching away to gently wrench apart two teens necking in the middle of the doorway. The hospital atmosphere absolutely kills her desire to be touched, clinically or otherwise, but they obviously don’t feel the same.

“Won’t you be glad to leave this mayhem behind?” Graham asks when he returns to her side.

“Leave?”

“For school, Emma,” he prompts her.

Quickly, she says, “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

She glances up at him to see him frowning. “Is this a thing we’re not talking about? It feels a bit like that. Emma, you know you can tell me anything.”

Emma sighs. The last time he said that...

“I’m not throwing away my future to run off with you into the sunset. I promise I left that desire behind in 9th grade,” Emma assures him.

He nods. “Well, I’m sure your father will approve. It was hard enough finding me to work at the station. Apparently, no one wants to deal with Leroy’s drunken exploits. Who’d have thought?”

“You’re a dying breed,” Emma says, patting him on the back.

“The last of the great ones,” he agrees.

“In the future, they’ll tell children stories about you. The Legend of Deputy Graham, they’ll call it.”

“And will my name be written in the stars?”

As he says this, he brushes his hand towards the ceiling, looking starry eyed already.

“You know it isn’t a true legend without a star named after it. Or a commemorative mug.”

Graham claps her on the back this time, laughing loud enough that he doesn’t have to herd the next group of teens out. They move without prodding, heading as far away from him as they can.

“Keep laughing,” Emma says out of the corner of her mouth. “It’s working.”

He keeps his hand on her back, using her to steady himself and as she smiles at the fleeing teens, she feels steadier too, so of course, it can’t last.

It’s after they’ve hauled the last of the teens back to the school and Graham’s shared dinner with them, when Emma moves to push up from the table and her mother stops her with a wave of her hand that her world becomes just as tilted of a landscape as before.

“What’s up?” Emma asks, drawing back down into her seat.

“Graham told me that you don’t want to the Safe Sex Saves Souls drive in the spring and I was just wondering why,” her mother says, with a completely straight face _and_ all in one rushed breath.

Emma takes a deep breath herself, and says, “Mom, I'm honestly just tired of talking about sex with horny teens.”

Her father coughs indiscreetly. Emma shoots him a glare, but he just shrugs his shoulders in a ‘What can you do?’ motion.

“Emma, it's the last year you'll have to suffer through this, I promise,” her mother says.

Her father coughs again. This time both Emma and her mother glare at him.

“Of course it is, I graduate this year,” Emma says after she’s made sure her father looks properly reproachful.

“You could always come home to volunteer,” her mother insists.

Emma has an argument on the tip of her tongue but quiets the moment she gets a good look at her mother’s “not to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m going to say something that’ll ruin your whole day” expression. Yeah, her mother’s expressions tend to pack that kind of punch and their aim? Right in Emma’s weakest points, usually.

“Speaking of coming back home, have you given any thought to some of the colleges you’d like to visit...or apply to? I know Ruby is going on some visits next week. It isn’t too late to join her.”

Emma groans inwardly. Of course, if Graham gave up one piece of their conversation, he had to give up the other. Her mother has always been too good at getting him to heed her pleas. Well, Emma’s given college a lot of non-thought where she picks up one pamphlet and zones out for half an hour before giving up for better applications of her time - homework, TV, deciphering Belle and Marian’s shorthand in the group texts.

She stuffs some of the chicken she’d meant to put away into her mouth, not the smoothest of avoidances, but she really has no idea what to say to her mother, the Principal about why she hasn’t been able to even think about colleges without wanting to run for the hills.

So instead of saying anything about that at all, she nods and says, “I’m going to work on it tomorrow, actually, and I'll let you know?”

Her mother beams, her father says, “We can’t wait to hear it,” and Emma’s world rocks further off its axis.

-

With Ruby and Marian occupied with the project for their English class - goddamn that Fitzgerald - Emma is left all on her lonesome during her free period. Normally, this wouldn’t bother her, but she has a handful of college pamphlets stuffed into her backpack and she doesn’t want anyone to see her desperation as she flips through them.

The path to Belle’s empty library shines with a brilliance that leads Emma quickly onward, with _salvation_ painted across the chipped door frame.

She slips inside, calling out a “Hey, it’s me!” to the empty library. She doesn’t hear Belle respond, so she just shrugs and settles down at the table to pull out her pamphlets. She spreads them out, the Ivy’s, the out-of-states, the private colleges and publics. Her reaches and her definite accepts, they all stare back at her with the same smiling faces, the same majors, the same promises to change her into a formidable and well-rounded adult who can go places! What places? Any places, _all_ the places. And all she has to do is send her app in - their app, the common app - with the $40, $50, $60 fee, or waiver, and she’s just taken the first step into a bright future for herself, and, the World!

Emma looks at the first testimonial, “...and I know I made the right choice for myself, not just because of the academics or the extracurriculars, but because of the friendships I’ve found here. It’s opened doors for me, widened my world beyond my understanding.”

This whole process is honestly beyond Emma’s understanding.

“Hey, Emma, we didn’t hear you come in.”

Belle’s voice breaking through Emma’s reading feels more like salvation than entering the library did. Emma looks up, pamphlet falling (not even close to) forgotten on the table. Belle has three books in her hand that she drops on the counter, and Killian stands at her elbow with two books of his own.

Well, there’s the ‘we’ question answered, a billion more questions fighting on the tip of Emma’s tongue. She settles on the easiest one while his eyes settle on her.

“His reform is going well, I take it?”

Belle laughs, looking at Killian. “Regina is supposed to be here next week, so Killian offered to help me some more. So, yes, his reform is going very well. He might even be ready to reenter proper society soon.”

Emma looks at Killian who smiles down at Belle and says, “With mandatory parole, I assume.”

“Oh, yes, you’re to check in for the elementary school book drive _and_ the middle school one."

Emma laughs at the throbbing muscle in his jaw. She’s helped with the middle school book drive before, during the Twilight phase. He’s right to look stressed. She makes the mistake of looking down at the table, and her laugh becomes a sigh so fast that she gives herself whiplash.

“Are those college apps?” Killian asks.

“These?” Emma asks oh so dramatically. “ _These_ are hell in paper form.”

Belle takes the two books out of Killian’s hands so she can lay them down on the counter too and says, “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Tell that to my head. I think my brain is trying to escape my ears,” Emma says, scoffing.

“I have a Tylenol if you need it,” Killian offers.

Maybe that’s how _it_ really starts - it being the stupid waves rocking in her stomach, sending the SS Emma’s Sanity to the bottom of the sea: with offered Tylenols and Emma’s eyes sliding over his fingers, which are as ring-less today as they were yesterday.

Emma waves him off. “Thanks, but I’m alright.”

Belle gives her a sympathetic look. Turning to Killian she asks, “I have to run out to meet with Principal Blanchard. Do you think you can handle the library all by yourself?" She swivels her eyes back to Emma, the look warning.

Emma raises her hands. She isn’t Ruby.

“I know, I know it’s a safe space. He’ll be fine in my care,” Emma says.

Killian lifts an eyebrow. Praying that he won’t take the easy opening she gave him would be foolish. Instead she prays that Belle doesn’t see the way he looks at Emma with his eyes far too dark and the smirk tugging at his lips. It must be breaking some kind of library fraternization rule to have him looking at her like that. You’re supposed to be quiet in a library, but his eyes are screaming things that would get them kicked out of the library - and all decent establishments.

“I'll be more than fine in Emma’s care, I’m sure.”

If Belle didn’t take that moment to look at him, he probably would’ve licked his lips too. Emma’s so thankful for Belle.

“You’re testing the limits of your parole, already? You know the warden can _always_ change her mind.”

Emma chokes, and has to bury her face in her sleeve to keep from cackling.

“I think that metaphor got out of hand,” she hears Belle say while Killian echoes Emma’s laughter.

“She keeps me on a tight leash, my warden” Killian says when Emma looks back up at them. He refrains from making it sound dirty, but it’s a struggle, Emma’s sure. He throws another smile Emma’s way and says, “Warden Belle, you’ll be late for your meeting with the Governor.”

Belle gives him a withering look. After a moment, she releases him from her gaze and gathers her bag off the counter. “Keep my library in a decent state or you're headed for the hole,” she says.

Emma’s giggling fade as Belle exits the library, and as the door shuts behind her, Emma feels her hands trembling more and more. Stuck alone with her college prospects, Killian, and the perpetual rocking motion of her ocean? Maybe she and Ruby won’t share a hell. Maybe she’s already in hers.

“No need to look so excited,” Killian says. He’s leaning against the counter now, one book back in hand so he can trail his finger over its spine.

Emma shivers.

“I’m not,” she says truthfully.

“College should be exciting for someone like you. Finally a school where your mom isn’t principal.”

“Hey, I _like_ my mother,” she protests.

Killian nods. “I like your mother, too.”

He has that dad voice again.

“I told you to stop talking about her like that.”

“Just can’t help myself, can I?” he asks the room. Emma rolls her eyes. He just _can’t_ help himself. She picks up another pamphlet, intent on ignoring him.

“You never texted me back last night. My dreams weren’t interrupted once.”

Intentions, intentions.

“Poor you, getting a good night’s sleep,” she says, dropping the pamphlet back on the table. She had no interest in going to Ohio for school anyway.

He steps towards her table, and Emma sits back a little in her chair, straighter. It’s a protective stance, definitely. She should be on guard around him, _should_ narrow her eyes at him as he circles the table, taking the seat closest to her instead of the one across.

“It wasn’t that great actually,” he explains while lifting one of the pamphlets from out of her grasp. “I don’t always have the best dreams, but you seem to be dreaming big. Harvard?”

She snatches the pamphlet from his hand and tears it in half. Tears those halves into smaller halves and fails at tearing the other halves even smaller, so she just drops the pieces on the table and twists her seat around so she can look at him better.

“Definitely not. And those don’t sound like dreams to me. More like nightmares.”

He scratches at his neck and picks up another pamphlet, flipping through it without looking at her.

“Like I told you last night, I really wouldn’t mind you interrupting my sleep,” he says. He lifts his eyes to her finally and dips his head to the side. “Bad dreams, or good ones.”

“And I suppose that’s because I’m better than any dream,” Emma says. She laughs into her hand. “You're going to need some new lines.”

He pokes at her side like she’d imagined he would last night, but he doesn’t snatch his hand back to his side. Instead he scoots his chair closer to her, using his grip on her to pull him in enough that their knees touch. Emma looks down at them and slowly leads her gaze back up to his face.

Killian releases her shirt, but he keeps his hand on her. It’s warm - warmer than the room. Her mother must’ve taken her advice to turn the heat down.

“How is this for new, then?” he asks, pulling her attention back to him. “It’s not that you’re better than any dream. I’ve had some truly great ones, Emma. Winning all those matches I lost, passing all those tests I’ve failed, Michelle Pfeiffer in Grease 2…”

He sighs wistfully. Emma groans, but when she moves to turn away, he picks up her hand, fingers testing at hers before threading them together.

“I could go on, but I don’t want to bore you. No, it’s just that I prefer reality to any dream, especially because you’re in it.”

She sounds kind of breathless as she says, “Even the dreams you have of me?” but deciding which colleges to apply to can certainly wear you out.

He winks. “I’ll tell you about those some other time, although I’ll have to pencil it in between our other dates.”

She hates this already, the way the SS Emma’s Sanity makes a surprising recovery from the depths and bobs up long enough to scream that she’s being ridiculous for the jumping in her chest. _Get a hold of yourself_ , it screams. Emma wishes it would sink again so she can actually enjoy this moment and his deepening smile.

Instead, it keeps screaming at her, so she loosens their joined grip. Turning away, she picks up another pamphlet and says, “Are you doing any college visits soon?”

“A couple,” he says.

“So you have some concrete ideas of where you want to be for the next few years.”

“Concrete would be a stretch, but I do know that wherever I go has to have a rugby team. Or rowing.”

“Rowing?”

Emma looks back at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. Killian makes a ridiculous rolling eyes, head tilting motion before he says, “You sound too surprised about this. Don’t think I’d be good at it? I have the strength for it and -”

“Shut up a moment, I was just surprised. We don’t have rowing in Storybrooke.”

He nods, accepting her explanation. “True. My brother used to take me out with him and a few of his crew. I had a rather good time of it. If Storybrooke offered that instead, I probably wouldn’t have taken up rugby.”

“And miss the chance to be Captain of the Storybrooke Rugby team?”

She gasps, pressing a hand to her mouth. Ruby would be so proud.

“It isn’t as great an accolade as you make it sound,” he says flatly.

“As _you_ make it sound, you mean, Captain?”

Killian swipes his hand over his face, an eyebrow raised when he pulls it back. “I suppose I shouldn’t have insisted on you calling me that, Lady Swan.”

She huffs and stares down at the Wesleyan campus. It’s pretty enough. The students look happy enough.

“Joss Whedon went there,” Killian says. “If that helps.”

“Who’s that?” Emma asks.

Killian looks downright offended so Emma guesses she should know? Maybe. If there’s one thing she’s learned from being his neighbor in English and French, Killian geekiness tends to run a little more detailed than hers.

“Didn’t you watch Buffy? I remember you used to wear that Chosen One t-shirt all the time.”

“You remember that?” Emma asks and presses her face into her hand. She wore that t-shirt for far too long, until it was too small for her boobs to fit into comfortably, so Ruby adopted it into a crop top for her. That she never wears outside of her house. Underboob isn’t exactly her style.

“I have excellent memory, Emma,” he says.

“And _that_ has no stalkerish undertones, none at all,” she replies dryly.

While he frowns at her, lips pursed together in annoyance, Emma searches her memory. Joss Whedon, Joss Whedon.

“Wait, was he Oz? He was cool, but I was a bit distracted.”

“Too busy swooning over Angel? And no, not even close, Emma.”

“Buffy, actually,” Emma corrects him. “She _slayed_ vampires and made puns while doing it. I imagine everyone was in love with her.” She narrows her eyes at him as he looks away. “You were, too, of course.”

“You kind of remind me of her,” he says, tapping her on the knee.

“You’re deflecting.”

He moves in closer again. “Am I? Or is this self-preservation?”

“I’m not jealous,” Emma says, sounding unbelievably (and deliberately) jealous when she continues. “Fall in love with whatever pretty blonde vampire hunter you want to.” She snorts. “I did.”

“But I like zombie slayers so much better.”

Emma jumps back as his hand brushes the back of her neck. He drops it slowly and searches her face. The look is too persistent, so Emma clears her throat and lifts the pamphlet back up, blocking out his view.

“I really have to figure at least one of these out, and I’m sure you have some cataloguing or whatever to do,” Emma says.

Now that’s what I call deflection!

“If you need any more help I’ll be at the computer,” he says. “I can tell you where all the important people have gone to school.”

Winking, he says, “Joss Whedon is the creator of Buffy, Angel, Firefly, and Dollhouse. Also directed the Avengers, that movie you loved enough to leave playing on the computer in here, which, speaking of, I had to rush to turn off before your mother came in.”

“Thanks,” Emma snaps.

“Anytime, darling.”

Keeping quiet is hard when it’s just her and her college pamphlets and all these promising futures scattered in front of her, so there’s nothing like Belle’s return to cut through the tension curling in Emma’s bones. Out of all the colleges before her, the one that she kept coming back to was Wesleyan. Like she can’t call herself a Joss Whedon fan or anything - but she can call herself a mess because every time she looked over a college, that question kept lingering on the tip of her tongue, “So, which important person went here?” and every time she’d think it, she’d look over at him, just to make sure -

Yep, right, he was still stealing glances at her.

As soon as Belle returns, Killian excuses himself from the library with a, “Am I free to go, Warden?” that makes Emma fight a smile.

“I’ll see you later,” he says to Emma, a promise in the grin he turns on her.

It isn’t even a French day, and it’s a practice day for him. The only way they’d see each other is if Emma - she slumps down in her seat because out of all the visions of his bedroom that she can get, it’s his dick that flashes in her face and can her mind get any further south than that?

It sounds like she’s issuing herself a challenge - or rather, one of Marian’s taunts at Emma’s mistaken belief that she’ll beat her for once. _Hah, wanna bet?_

-

Ruby saves her arm-slinging for Ashley’s shoulder today so Emma’s safe from her heavy weight pulling her down, and the new perfume she’s decided to test. Emma hasn’t smelled so many scents so frequently in all of her life - and if she didn’t have a headache before, she has one now as Ruby says, “You wanted to tell Emma, too?”

“Tell me what?” Emma asks warily.

Ashley looks nervous for a moment before her mouth falls into a small smile. “So, you know, we took your advice and both our test results came back clear. So, we’re going to -” Ashley quiets, blushing. Breathing deep, she says, “Well, I really just wanted to say thank you.”

Emma gapes for a moment. Ruby shrugs her shoulders and reaches out her other hand to shove Emma not so gently. “Hey, you should be ecstatic. You helped out a girl in need.”

At least her universe isn’t completely off-kilter because she isn’t surprised when Ruby sighs and says, “Now, if only we could help out another girl in need.”

“I'm not in need,” Emma says, words grumbled quietly. It’s as close to the truth as she can come without risking Killian’s life.

“Are you sure? Last I looked that list was still ten items long,” Ruby says.

Last Emma looked, it was six, but she rightly chooses not to point that out.

“I thought we ended this conversation,” Emma hisses. She studies Ruby and her wide innocent eyes, but it’s the cat-like “I ate your canary, your fish, and threw up in your shoe” smile that has Emma say, only seconds later, “I deleted that from your phone. Where are you hiding your other copy? Did you upload that onto multiple devices?”

Ruby’s cat-like smile becomes significantly more regretful until her self-satisfaction becomes a distant memory in the face of Emma’s continued glare.

“No. But I still have _The List_. You know, the one you wrote on paper and signed, “Ruby, you're an asshole,’ with hearts and all?”

“And I suppose you still have my diaries from middle school too,” Emma sighs.

“Organized in chronological order,” Ruby says.

Ashley makes a sound. It wasn’t like Emma forgot she was there, but Ruby clears her throat like she forgot the person she was leaning on could actually hear her. “Well, Ashley, what I really meant to say is that if you need any tips, Emma is the one to go to. She knows everything you need to know.”

Emma does a double take. “Wait, what?”

“Hey, you were the one bragging about lube and anal beads.”

“What?” Ashley says and the same time Emma tells Ruby, “Fuck off.”

She hushes Ruby by shoving her away from Ashley and says, “Ashley, ignore her.” Looping her arms with the younger girl, she pulls her away from Ruby’s pouting form. “But, ah, if you _do_ happen to need anything else or just want to...talk about it, I’m here. Though you can skip the details.”

Ruby doesn’t so much as crash into them as she hits them like a Ruby shaped brick.

“Skip them,” Emma underscores with a nod of her head and a pained elbow to Ruby’s side.

“I will. I’m just...is it bad that I’m excited?”

“You should be,” Ruby cuts back in. “You’re supposed to enjoy it. Can’t do that if you’re not excited.”

“Well, okay, that’s good.” She turns to Emma. “I mean, were you excited?”

Emma blanches, and forget everything she’s ever said about Ruby being an awful human being because Ruby swoops in, Emma’s savior, and replies, “Yeah. It made everything so much smoother.”

“Smooth?”

“Smooth is Good,” Ruby says like it’s her own personal slogan. The way she can go on about the wonders of shaved legs, it could be.

Ruby tugs Emma and Ashley apart and says, “Come on, if Emma’s not up for details, I’ll tell you _all_ about it.”

“Spare her,” Emma pleads. She’s knows this story far too well. Ashley shouldn’t have to suffer the same fate.

“I think I’ll be okay," Ashley says. “Thanks, though. I hope your mom’s happy with your results, too.”

That might be the strangest congratulations Emma’s ever received. She nods and tries to smile, but only manages a nervous baring of teeth. Ruby gives her a questioning look but merely says, “Later, Emma. You should go before you miss class.”

“Right,” Emma says, about to turn until she notices Ruby still giving her that questioning look. There’s no telling what Ruby might try to dig up if she gets curious so Emma gives her a genuine smile, tugged up from the depths of all her good memories, her very own real life Patronus, and says, “Enjoy your sex talk. I’m sure _you_ will.”

Ruby winks, look fading so Emma feels safe about waving her away and ignoring the, “You would too.”

She’s halfway to class when the SS Emma’s Sanity rears its ugly head to remind her that 1) she hasn’t spoken to Killian in days, 2) “Emma, you’ve been doing so well with this. Don’t fuck it up,” and 3) speaking of fucking it up, you should go get those test results.

“Fuck,” she whispers to herself as she enters the room.

She slinks into her seat, which isn’t easy when Killian’s propped his feet back on it so he can stare her down easily.

“How’ve you been, Emma?” he asks.

Emma turns to look at him, and meet his not safe for school rooms look. “You’re supposed to ask that in French. This _is_ French class.”

Before he can muster a reply, their French teacher reiterates Emma’s words by turning on their conversation tapes. Emma digs in her bag to crack open her book. Killian’s weight reluctantly shifts off her chair as he does the same.

_Doing well, Emma_.

_Don’t fuck it up, Emma_.

“I’m not too upset that you’re ignoring me, so don’t feel too badly,” he murmurs over the two girls arguing on their French tape.

Emma ignores him, since he said it was okay and all.

“But I was wondering if you wanted to come over again so we could work on that English project.”

Killian’s words are quiet enough for Emma to keep her eyes on the lines in the text and pretend not to hear.

“Should I keep to the subject matter, then? How do you say it in French…?”

Emma lifts her eyes to him, curiosity getting the better of her. As hard as he’s trying to keep his expression contemplative, his mouth keeps twitching into a smile.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says. He stops trying not to smile, leaning across the separation in their desks, fingers on her textbook. He times it perfectly. The woman on the tape is obnoxiously loud in asking her friend over for dinner when Killian says, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

Absolutely _perfect_ timing for the tap on his shoulder to draw his focus away from Emma. The tape should’ve been loud enough to drown out the practically whispered question but not with their teacher standing right behind him.

Emma probably should’ve issued a warning, but this is so much better.

“Your pronunciation has improved, Killian, but your manners could use some work, it seems. It is nice to see you in class regularly again, but be mindful that you are in class and save the Patti Labelle for after?”

Emma holds it in for as long as she can, which isn’t long. Her chest tightens with every nearly silent laugh to the point that she can’t breathe let alone complete the conversation exercise they’re supposed to be engaging in. Their teacher doesn’t seem to mind, turning her attention back to the pronunciation tapes.

Killian minds enough to burrow down into his seat and stare pointedly at his notebook. Her cheeks hurt for the rest of class from all the smiles she resists throwing in his direction. She’s surprised that he doesn’t actually explode with the way he fumes beside her, but then again maybe spontaneous combustion really is a myth.

The crashing of the SS Emma’s Sanity though? That’s the stuff of legends. All she has to do is look at Killian for it to take a nosedive back into the bottom of the sea, which is the only thing that can account for the way she allows her world to go full on topsy-turvy and lets herself free-fall with it.

He’s out of his seat so fast when class ends that Emma has to run to keep up with him, but when she calls after him, “You didn’t let me answer your question. About the English project,” he doesn’t so much as stop as skid to a halt. She can almost see the cloud of smoke beneath his heels.

“Yeah?”

The tips of Killian’s ears are still an interesting shade of red. Probably the same color as her cheeks when she says, “Oui.”

-

Her test results are waiting on her bed when she comes home. Unopened and with a note from her mom reading, “You don’t have to tell me.”

There’s a unicorn sticker on the note. Emma grins and opens it.

Negative, negative, negative. More negatives, more negatives.

Maybe her world hasn’t gone so crazy after all.


	5. i had no interest in the things she said on the phone every day, i’ll permanently hit the hay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #5 - Masturbation

“You know when I invited you over to share my bed, I meant that you’d actually share it.”

Emma rolls her eyes and spreads out a little more on Killian’s bed, all their notes for the Gatsby project laid out across his pillows.

“Why am I relegated to the floor again?”

Emma graces him with a look this time, mainly because she can’t look at their writing without her vision swimming. It also swims a little bit at the look he gives her but that’s to be expected at this point. She shrugs away the jumping in her chest when he drops her a smile as she’s shrugged away everything today including the fact that it’s a Monday, the worst day ever invented, and replies, “So you can pass me the glasses out of my backpack?”

“You forgot your contacts?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was in a rush,” she explains absentmindedly.

He brightens, grinning down into the open mouth of her backpack. “To see me.”

This back and forth is dumb. She smiles anyway.

“To get this project over with,” she says.

“With me,” he singsongs, swaying.

Emma reaches out her hand to accept the glasses case. Their fingers brush as he places it in her hand. His linger, and if hers do, too? Well, so what? Who cares?

She thinks Killian might care a little too much. She thinks she might care a little, too.

“You won’t be happy until I say I came here because of you, will you?” she asks.

His sigh is frustrated. “I’m not holding my breath, Emma.”

“Good. I need you conscious for this.”

She hums distractedly while he stares at her, making sure she’s not too distracted enough to notice his renewed smile. She notices.

She smiles.

“I don’t know. I’m thinking a nap is an excellent idea,” Killian says. He supports his assertion by dropping fully to the floor, and stretching out snow angel style. He even exacts a yawn that doesn’t sound so faked, although it sounds dirtier than any yawn should.

“I hope you enjoy sleeping on the floor,” she says.

He yawns again, and this time Emma is certain that he is doing this on purpose, but she can’t call him out on it. That would be an invitation for a conversation she doesn’t want to have.

She shifts her gaze back to their notes and picks his up. If she thinks about Gatsby, she won’t think about anything else. No better way to kill the desire to jump your study partner than actual studying.

“I don’t particularly enjoy it, but I really don’t want to do this project right now,” Killian replies.

“But that is why you invited me over.”

She stares at him, waiting for him to confirm or give her a flirty response. It’s a coin toss for which - heads for confirmation, and tails for...grabbing some tail?

“I was hoping you’d volunteer to do it for me,” he explains.

“You’re the better writer,” Emma says, glancing over his paper.

“Really?”

His surprise catches her off guard. She drops his notes to look at him.

“You got an A on your analysis. I got a B+. Grades don’t lie,” Emma says.

He raises a hand, no doubt to argue - “grades don’t matter, everyone is talented in their own way, you are a unique individual, Emma, don't you ever forget that.”  Alright, thanks, Mom voice in her head. To Killian, she adds, “Besides, you have style.”

“...Beauty, grace, do go on, Emma,” he says. “I’m listening.”

She bites back her laughter with difficulty. Schooling her face into sternness (taking a page out of Belle’s book), she says, “Be helpful for a moment, please.”

He lifts back up, wrapping his arms around his knees. “What do you need?”

“An idea.”

Killian sighs, “I wish I had one, but I’m empty. Maybe we should watch the movie. That could help give us a visual that might spark some ideas.”

“Study date to movie date - boy, you’re moving fast,” Emma comments.

“It’s still a study date if we’re doing research.” He clears his throat. Emma doesn’t look up, not until he says, “Also, date, I like the sound of that.”

“I -”

It isn’t like she didn’t realize what she said. Emma _does_ hear herself when she speaks and she doesn’t speak _every_ thought that comes to her head. She picks and chooses what she’s going to say carefully most of the time. Even this time.

Still, she doesn’t have a response at the ready to his confirmation of their situation. To their “date.”

She is quiet too long for her own comfort. She can hear the heat moving through pipes in his house, the creaking of his floorboards. He breaks the quiet by yawning - this time obviously faked but Emma doesn’t mention it, grateful that he doesn’t mention her silence either.

“Let me grab the TV,” he says and stands to his feet.

“Wait! What does that mean?” Emma asks while he disappears out his door.

What it means is that Killian actually doesn’t keep the TV in his room because it’s “too distracting” for his study routine, but when he does, he props it up on his file cabinet because if he’s going to be lazy, he’s going to be as lazy as possible and watch it from his bed instead of from the discomfort of his desk.

“There’s no space for you,” Emma says, watching him pick up all their papers off his bed. He keeps them organized in the assignment order she put them in, which is the weirdest thing to make her blush, but she does all the same - like it’s important that he noticed.

She rubs at her face. He takes her glasses too, but that’s okay. She doesn’t need them for distance.

“There’s plenty of space for me if you would move over. We both fit last time,” he says, dropping his laptop on the bed.

 _Last time on Killian’s bed!_ The memories flash, far too memorably through her mind in surround sound, HD, crystal clear quality, almost so lifelike you feel like you were there!

_And picking up where we left off…_

Emma climbs out of the bed. “I’ll take the desk chair, then,” she says.

“I’m not going to -” He gives her a funny look. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

She’s a terrible liar when she’s nervous. Too combative, too -

“You’re all nerves,” he says.

“And blood, bone, tissue, cartilage, veins -”

He cuts her off before she can go any further, which is good because all she had left was ‘arteries and organs.’

“Emma, you’re not going to enjoy the movie in that desk chair,” he points out.

“Are you ever supposed to enjoy research?” she asks, backing away from the bed.

She shoots a glance at the desk chair. It doesn’t look particularly inviting, which is exactly what she needs right now, something that doesn’t look inviting, enticing, exciting...

“You make a valid point, but you’re making it for invalid reasons, so I’m going to have to shoot you down.”

“Bang, bang,” Emma says, making finger guns in his direction.

She’s never had an excuse to use the word ‘guffaw,’ not until the moment that the laugh bursts out of his mouth, and he clutches at his stomach.

“Join me,” he says when he gets ahold of himself. “I promise I won’t bite if you promise you won’t either.”

She bares her teeth. “I make no promises.”

Scratching at his jaw, he murmurs aloud, “You get too much sun to be a vampire, so werewolf? She wolf?” A grin spreads across his face. “Succubus?”

“I’m not stealing your soul through your dick.” He stares at her, so she goes on. “I mean, that _is_ what succubuses do, right?”

“Succubae,” he corrects like he’s her English teacher.

She looks at the pile of their essays forlornly. “Shut up,” she hisses.

“Join me, please,” Killian says.

He’s pouting and Emma is weak, far too weak to put up any more of a fight.

“Fine.”

She walks over and presses one knee on the bed, careful not to jostle it too much with his laptop placed so precariously on his pillow.

He hums with energy and her nervousness fades while his smile brightens. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman, and then I’ll be the perfect student and study buddy, and you can go home having had the perfect day.”

“I’m not sure you know what that word actually means,” Emma says while she settles back into his bed.

He doesn’t reach out to pull her towards him, rolling a little closer to the wall even so that there’s enough space in between them that they don’t have to touch. Perfectly gentlemanly.

Killian picks up his laptop and turns it on. Emma averts her gaze when he types in his password, but once he’s in, all bets are off.

“What’s in that folder?” she asks curiously, pointing to the one labelled “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” he says.

Real subtle. _Real_ clever.

“Is that your porn folder?”

“No, it's my ‘stuff’ folder.”

Emma makes a disbelieving sound. Apparently he forgets he’s being a gentleman because he knocks her side with his knee and doesn’t pull back when she slaps him across the ankle.

“You call your illegal downloads folder ‘I fought the law?’” she asks when he opens up the folder and directs it to the movies folder within.

“And the law has yet to win,” he says. He looks up at her, grins, and then returns back to flipping through for Gatsby.

“That’s actually…”

“Clever?” he suggests.

“Yeah, right.”

“You can’t just give me a compliment without taking it back?”

He doesn’t so frustrated, but - “I’m trying,” she admits. She looks down at her knees, her black leggings making them look knobbier than usual. They look just _so_ weird when she’s trying to avoid his gaze.

“Pick at me all you want, I’ll survive,” he says. “As someone once told me, my ego could use some hit taking.”

“I said that,” Emma says.

“You, Ruby, Jeff, Elsa, Aurora, Mulan, _Tink_.”

He sighs as he says Tink’s name. Emma tries not to think of why.

She fucking fails. F minus, see me after class level of failure, but she succeeds at least at not thinking of it aloud. Emma doesn’t know Tink beyond their two drunken encounters, so perhaps she shouldn’t be judging her for that and this, whatever _this_ is.

“What are you thinking about?” Killian asks, throwing Emma out of her thoughts.

Embarrassed at having had them at all, she stares at the TV screen, at the cursor hovering over the play button, she says, “Why does it matter?”

The bed dips as he gets up and crawls to the end of it to place his laptop on the floor.

“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” he comments.

“It’s not,” Emma agrees.

Killian turns to look at her and wiggles his eyebrows in a way Emma isn’t sure is intentional or not. They do seem to have a life of their own.

“I have suspicions,” he says.

She gives him a pitying look. “Well, that’s your problem not mine.”

“You still haven’t answered the question,” he says.

He presses play. Emma looks at the TV while he crawls back into his original seating at her side. She must’ve rolled over a bit without noticing because while he still presses himself against the wall, she can feel the warmth between them now, too close to be ignored.

“What question?”

Killian just chuckles, so she throws a hand his way, intent on pushing him away. She hits his cheek and turns to apologize, but the appalled look he throws her way makes her laugh instead.

“Are we watching this movie is the question,” Killian says.

“I am, so be quiet,” Emma says. Thinking she should probably still issue an apology, she says, “Sorry about your face.”

“I don’t think you’re sorry,” he says.

Emma turns again, the movie too quiet for her to pretend to not hear him.

“I could make you sorry.”

“Threatening the Sheriff’s daughter isn’t going to get you very far,” Emma says, pushing at him.

His voice rises, high and ridiculously annoying while he pushes back at her, lightly enough that she barely even moves, rocking on her side. “I’m the principal’s daughter, don’t mess with me. I’m the sheriff’s daughter, so watch what you say. My grandfather was a prince, my grandmother a queen.”

“I don’t sound like that,” she protests, backing him into the wall. “And my dad’s grandparents were farmers. My mom’s…were very, very, very minor royalty but - I _don’t_ sound like that.”

She should’ve just ignored him. The smugness on his face is just unbearable.

“I think you do,” he teases.

“Well, don’t think too hard, you might hurt yourself.”

“Here’s a thought: you can’t just pay me a compliment because you’d rather argue with me instead,” he says, pulling her in with one hand, the other brushing her side. She focuses on disentangling herself from his grip, but when she moves one hand away, the other comes up out of nowhere. It’s like battling some kind of octopus with hands.

“And another,” he says when she’s too busy fighting him off to respond. He has to take a moment to finish because she lands an elbow in his side and she hears the breath leave him before he attacks her with vigor. They roll, Killian half on top of her, his leg pinning hers to the bed, so he has the momentary chance to say, “I think you just like arguing with me because I let you win.”

“Let me win?” Emma says.

“Like I’m letting you win right now,” Killian says.

“But you’re not,” she whines.

Emma pouts, an intentional effort to distract him. It works, his eyes falling to her mouth and his hand loosening on her side so she rolls them back over to their sides and makes him hit the wall hard. He makes an ‘oof’ sound and follows it up by saying, “And I let you win because I like you.”

She thinks she knows where he’s going to hit her next, but she’s mistaken. He doesn’t go for her side, but tickles at her stomach instead, low enough that it’s less a tickle and more a caress and oh-fucking- _no_.

Killian’s voice sounds distant when he says, “Here’s a final thought: you also like me.”

His hands move higher, tickling some more, and she giggles out her response, “Stating the goddamn obvious.”

“Right?”

The fall in his voice makes Emma stop trying to tug his hands away. Instead, she wraps her hands around his wrists and blinks at him, making sure her vision is clear, no swimming, no dancing lights, just his face before her.

“Right,” she confirms.

She kisses him first, but his hands curl into her shirt before she can let him go - and then she doesn’t want to let him go, wants him to keep pulling her closer so she can deepen the kiss. It’s their best one so far, she thinks, in so far as she can think when she’s kissing him.

Thought doesn’t come easy.

She pulls away, and with only one thought pressing on her mind, she says, “I’m going to connect it to one of our other readings.”

It takes him a long moment to catch up with her, which is understandable considering that her mouth is still close enough for him to kiss.

Half of her - _most_ of her wishes he would take that opportunity, but the part of her that cares about her grade must sound real plaintive right now because he gives her one last look of longing before he draws back and says, “What reading?”

She kind of hates herself in that moment, but self-hating, longing thoughts aside, she’s grateful that he doesn’t protest.

“Daisy Miller, I’m thinking, here I’ll show you.”

-

It takes them two hours, but when they’re done, Emma feels satisfied enough with the project that she doesn’t even bother to hide her smile when he pokes her cheek as she’s laying over the edge of his bed.

“Told you I’d be the perfect study buddy,” he says, leaning forward.

“Eh, you’re decent.”

“I could be _indecent_ ,” he says.

“I have to go home and do college apps,” Emma says. “I still have pages of the common app to fill out.”

“Well, that can’t possibly wait,” he says.

“It can’t.”

It _can’t_.

“Absolutely impossible to push back,” he says.

He leans forward and kisses her forehead.

“Most definitely,” she says when he pulls back.

She sits up so she’s not looking at him upside down anymore. Even with her glasses on, it was coming close to giving her a headache. And the rush of blood from her head to _other_ places is becoming a headache of a different kind.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere, seemingly casual, the same way Emma’s answer of, “No, I’m good,” is seemingly casual, too.

In reality, she turns to pack up her bag, not because it’s the thing she should be doing since she has apps to do and all, but it makes her nervous fidgeting less noticeable. See, Killian, she isn’t just nerves, she’s shaking hands and racing thoughts, too!

“Hey,” he says, drawing those racing thoughts aside. “We have that French test next Monday. Maybe we could study for that, too? Say, Saturday, after my practice? We could meet at Mama’s and then head here and -”

He slows himself down. “I promise, it’s just studying. Nothing untoward.”

“Sure,” Emma says, just to get him to shut up. “But I’ll meet you here. It’s just easier this way, and I’m trying to avoid Mama’s. Ruby almost caught me there last week. It’s too much of a risk.”

“You’re ready to leave me all by my lonesome, then?” Killian pouts as Emma finishes lacing her shoes, stands, and slings her backpack over her shoulder.

“You’ll survive,” Emma says.

He stands up from the floor and waves her towards the door. “Quickly, now, I need to get busy surviving without you,” he says.

“Don’t whine.”

She stops at the door, mainly because he holds her back.

“You should put your hat on,” he says. “It’s cold out there.”

He steps up behind her and she feels her bag unzip. It’s uncomfortable for a moment, his hands digging into her bag, and then it’s nothing but warmth and softness when he gently places her hat on her head.

“It’s not that cold,” Emma finally protests after he’s zipped up her backpack and opened the door.

“Humor me. Also, text me when you get home, so I know you got home. You didn’t do that last time.”

“Was I supposed to?” Emma asks.

Killian frowns. “You said you would.”

Ah, there’s the mystery of “what the hell did we say to each other after I sucked your dick?” solved. They hover on his doorstep, standing toe to toe, Killian looking down at her, a smile pricking his lips, but when Killian moves in, Emma steps back and says, “See you in class.”

He doesn’t call after her, which is good, better than good, A+, you’ve passed with flying colors, and look you’re flying down the street.

It’s only after she’s home, kicking off her shoes and settling on her own bed that she realizes she forgot her phone. Which is better than good because who knows what she might’ve done if she had it?

Text him probably.

-

They enter the library at the same time, which is excellent timing and even more excellent, quick on your feet thinking when Killian bumps into her and slips her phone into her pocket.

“You know -” he starts, but Belle calls out to Emma so whatever he was going to say, he replaces with a warm greeting to Belle instead.

“Thanks for coming today. Can you handle the books while I talk to Emma?”

“Sure,” Killian says, looking back at Emma significantly. What that significance could possibly mean, Emma doesn’t know.

Instead of pondering it, she sits down at the table across from Belle. “What’s up?”

“Ruby’s leaving today,” Belle says.

“I know.”

“So, I was wondering if tonight you wanted to have a sleepover with me? There’s a group of us who applied early decision, so we’re making it a bi-weekly exercise,” Belle says. “We meet up to cry out our anxieties, watch good movies, maybe a few bad ones, and lose some more of the sleep we need.”

“Sounds like fun,” Killian says.

Belle gives him a hushing look. “Stop listening in on my conversations and get back to work.”

“Yes, Warden.”

Killian salutes and disappears back into the backroom under Belle’s watchful gaze. When he’s gone, Belle turns back to Emma and says, “Really, you should join us. I know you’re having trouble with your college apps right now and with Ruby out of town and not able to distract, it would be really nice if you let us be your distraction. Elsa and Tink will be there, too. I know you and Elsa get along.”

There’s some kind of undercurrent to the mention of her and Elsa getting along that maybe only Emma hears, maybe Belle doesn’t mean that she and Tink don’t get along, maybe there’s no reason they shouldn’t, maybe, maybe, _just_ maybe, Emma shouldn’t be thinking of Killian’s sigh on Tink’s name.

“I’ll go,” Emma says.

“Oh, good, you can bring the cupcake pans,” Belle says.

“You can bring a cupcake for me, too,” Killian says as he returns from the back with a cart of books.

Emma and Belle stare. Under both their less than impressed gazes, he slumps and moves through the library, the very picture of despondence. Emma laughs and says, “I’ll think about it.”

“Think hard, darling!” Killian calls out.

“Don’t tease him, Emma. It isn’t kind,” Belle says. “And thanks again for coming tonight. It’ll be fun.”

It sounds like a whole shelf of books clattering to the floor at Belle’s words, the worst kind of foreboding, but Emma stands up to find it’s only Killian, lifting one of the shelves to reach for a book that’s somehow wedged beneath them.

“No need to worry,” he says with a wink.

-

Emma brings the cupcake pans, Tink brings the booze, and Belle’s dad has martini glasses within easy reach so it isn’t ten minutes into their sleepover that they’re laid out on the couch and the carpeted floor, drinking vodka cranberries out of martini glasses.

Victor would be so proud.

Two shots later, Elsa’s the first one to speak. “Anna said I needed to loosen up some. I admit I have been a bit tense since I put in the application, but it’s hard not to be. My parents had such high hopes for me that sometimes I’m afraid I’ll let them down.”

Emma can understand that, soul deep even. That fear of not doing the right thing and fucking up beyond all repair, she’s felt that since she first opened her common app account. Hell, she’s felt that way since sophomore year when her mother became Principal.

“You won’t,” Emma says easily because it’s Elsa.

Who wouldn’t be proud of her? She’s sure Anna would say the same thing, and fight anyone who said otherwise, parents included.

“Thanks, Emma.”

Belle grabs the bottle again. It sloshes loudly - Emma turns to hand her the martini glass, when Elsa says, “Wait, before we get too drunk, Emma and I should start the cupcakes.”

Emma drops her glass down and flashes Elsa her widest smile.

“Let’s go make some magic.”

“What does that mean?” Tink asks, her voice wavering in apprehension. “Are you making like...acid cupcakes or something?”

“No... Is that even something you can make?”

Belle pulls out her phone, typing fast. “Google says that it’s a clothing company, so I’m assuming ‘No’ is the answer to that one.”

“Our cupcakes are magic because Elsa’s icing is phenomenal,” Emma says, rubbing Elsa’s shoulder.

“And Emma’s cake is even better,” Elsa says.

“Yes, they always sound like that when they’re baking together,” Marian says to Tink’s raised eyebrows and fallen jaw. “Like they’re baked.”

Emma and Elsa share a look, and giggling, Emma takes Elsa’s hand to lead her to Belle’s kitchen. It’s like rote now, the way they move around each other, Emma pulling out the ingredients she needs for the cake batter, Elsa doing the same for the icing.

“Pass me the egg beater?” Emma asks.

Elsa passes Emma a smile _and_ the egg beater, which is even better. Emma likes to say that her cupcakes are made with love, but really they’re made with flour in her face and Elsa shoveling spoonful after spoonful of icing into Emma’s mouth until she agrees that is has the right consistency.

The cupcakes are in the oven by the time the rest of their group are halfway through the first hour of North & South.

“What a good sleepover,” Emma comments as Richard Armitage’s profile takes the screen.

Elsa grabs the couch, so Emma has no choice but to settle at the edge of it. It’s good that she isn’t too comfortable because her own exhaustion and the vodka cranberry would probably put her to sleep and she doesn’t want the cupcakes to burn.

“Oh, I ordered the pizza, too,” Belle says. “Should be here in 10.”

It’s there in 8 minutes, but the pizza guy has to wait for 5 more because they’re at a pivotal scene and no one moves until it’s over and Mr. Thornton has disappeared from the screen.

Cupcakes come soon after, and somehow in the mayhem, they’ve all shifted seats so Emma’s on the couch next to Tink, within easy reach of Tink’s reaching hand. It draws Emma’s attention away from the screen.

“Hey, I think the last time we met you were shoveling chips into my mouth,” she says.

Emma smiles and says, “Yeah, true.”

“And this time it’s cupcakes. _Magic_ cupcakes,” Tink says, moaning around the last piece of hers.

The thought slips in easily enough, no sinister creeping on Emma’s mind, just a casual ‘did Killian and her hook up once too?’ Oh, so casually, she thinks it, and not so casually she shakes the thought away and clears her throat in an attempt to clear her head, with no success.

“Never stop feeding me,” Tink says.

Emma nods and turns back to the movie, not because she wants to ignore her, but because she wants to ignore herself and the stupid pounding in her head. She wishes her sanity would come back from leave, making a surprise recovery in the 9th inning, but it doesn’t, so she just sits there, thinking about Killian and Tink when she would rather be thinking about Mr. Thornton.

“I think I’m having a panic attack,” Marian announces.

It’s not the kind of saving Emma would have wanted, but it does the trick.

While Tink leaves the couch to travel to Marian’s side, Marian says, “I’ll be okay, soon, I think, but can we do something else?”

“Like what? A game?” Emma suggests, leaving the couch as well to fall on the floor in between Belle and Elsa.

“Never Have I Ever?” Marian suggests.

“Always a good one,” Belle agrees.

Marian takes several deep breaths before she says, “Let’s start simple, alright, because this will inevitably lead to sex talk, so we might as well get the easy questions out of the way. Never have I ever gotten too drunk to get myself home on my own.”

Emma glares at Marian and lifts her recently refilled glass to her lips. The drink burns on the way down, and Emma’s eyes burn holes in the back of Marian’s head as she’s turned away to stare at Belle instead.

“Really?”

“Ruby’s house,” Belle explains, coughing slightly. When she catches her breath, she says, “So, it wasn’t like I needed to get myself home anyway.”

Belle refills her empty glass and then passes the bottle to Emma and Tink.

“My turn,” Tink says, having set her glass back down. “Never have I ever been hungover on a school day.”

Emma’s going to have alcohol poisoning by the time this night is through. “Half glasses?” she suggests, to the amusement of everyone.

She honestly hates them all and would do so loudly if she wasn’t trying to finish her slice of pizza before she has to take another drink.

The circle rounds to Elsa who claps her hands together and says, “Never have I ever gotten high intentionally.”

Emma swallows the last bite of her pizza and breathes a sigh of relief. Flicking her gaze back to Elsa, she asks, “Intentionally?”

Elsa laughs nervously, rubbing her hands together.

“Anna was convinced that it was medicinal. I had a really awful cold so I wasn’t thinking clearly when I took the pipe.” In a rush, she says, “The rest is embarrassing and not to be spoken of.”

“So, we’ll speak of it later, then?” Emma suggests, nudging Elsa in the side. She laughs, her cheeks so bright and red that Emma thinks they won’t need to speak of it later. She’s drunk enough to spill even her darkest of secrets now.

“Never have I ever…” Emma pauses, unsure of what to say. Alcohol, drugs, what else is there left to cover but sex? Emma’s not going to be the one to start them on that course. “Been sober at one of Victor’s parties.”

Marian waves her glass excitedly. “Thanks, Emma. Now I won’t be sober at this one,” she says and downs the vodka cranberry in one easy motion.

“Never have I ever dated a guy,” Belle says.

Emma sighs. She, Marian, and Tink drink, while Elsa and Belle high-five each other.

“It’s not that exciting,” Emma comments drily.

“You’re right, but high-fives are _always_ exciting,” Belle says and high-fives Elsa again, this time with a little whoop that makes Emma laugh.

Okay, she has to give her that one.

Tink slaps at Belle’s hand before she can raise it again and says, “Never have I ever been with a girl.”

Emma doesn’t think that one time she and Ruby kissed during a middle school camp game of spin the bottle counts so she avoids the drink. She’s the only one who does. Vaguely, she remembers Marian dating someone at her old school, a Robin maybe? Robyn? She’s not sure of the spelling on that one. And Belle, of course, is dating Ruby, but Elsa?

“When I was abroad last year, I dated a girl in Switzerland,” Elsa says to her questioning look. “This was after I got over my crush on you.”

“Wait what?” Emma says.

“Wait _what_?” Belle echoes.

Elsa shakes her head and pokes at Emma’s side. “Emma, you can be a bit oblivious to the obvious when you let yourself be. And you were in love with Graham at the time, plus all that upheaval with your mother becoming principal, so I didn’t have the heart to tell you. I was not as brave as I am now, which should be obvious since I am telling you after all.”

“Wow,” Emma says.

“You sound flattered,” Elsa says. She flutters her eyelashes. Drunken Elsa is a flirt, and somehow this doesn’t surprise Emma in the least.

“I am,” Emma says. “I wish I knew.”

Drunken Elsa licks a droplet of vodka cranberry from her lip and winks at Emma. Drunken Elsa could give Killian a run for his money.

“With that said,” Elsa says. “Never have I ever been brave enough to ask someone out.”

Emma could cheer for another one she doesn’t have to drink. This is easier than Emma thought it would be three questions back. Marian and Tink are the ones to suffer this time, Marian in silence and Tink with a vicious shake of her head.

“I asked Robin out,” Marian says. “You, Tink?”

Tink blushes. “I asked Killian out.”

Emma doesn’t perk up, but she does nearly knock over her glass.

Belle coughs and says, “Oh, yeah, he told me you two were…”

“Are friends.” She giggles, shaking her head in memory. “It only took two dates for me to realize that he’s not my type.”

“What _is_ your type?” Emma asks.

Tink blinks at her and her mouth falls open, but a second later, she smiles and says, “I’m still not sure yet. I’m more certain of getting into my school than I am of whether I actually _want_ to date anyone.”

Emma nods because yeah, friends. Friends are good. Emma loves her friends, so Killian must love his, too, which explains the sigh. Gods, she wishes she could stop thinking about this.

“Your turn, Emma,” Elsa prompts.

“Never have I ever…”

She blanks.

“Never have I ever…”

“Emma, come on, there’s a million things you haven’t done.” Emma should probably be offended, but Marian softens the blow a moment later. “Anal beads?”

“Oh my god, what is with you and Ruby? Never have I ever used anal beads,” Emma grumbles.

“Would anyone admit to that? Would anyone _do_ that?” Elsa asks.

Emma sighs, ducking her head at the unpleasant memory. Her mother had even suggested showing her a video. “You’d be surprised.”

“That sounds like a story I’m not drunk enough for,” Elsa says, even though she’s redder than she was before and she keeps rocking back on her knees, apparently unaware of the motion.

“Never have I ever used _any_ sex toys,” Belle says. “To cover all the bases.”

Tink tosses back a drink. “Ladies, vibrators are you friend.”

“I trust your judgment on that one,” Marian says. She laughs and looking around at their circle, says, “I think it’s over. The panic attack, I mean, so if you want to quit…”

“Let’s continue,” Drunken Elsa suggests.

Marian smiles a little wider and says, “Okay, okay. Never have I ever gone down on anyone, regardless of gender.”

Emma freezes, unsure whether to take the glass or not. She can’t _feel_ eyes on her, but everyone’s watching each other. Everyone’s watching.

She sighs. She flinches. She takes the drink.

“Emma! Ruby’s going to kill me when I tell her,” Marian says.

“Don’t tell her. Please,” Emma begs.

This was a bad idea. A horrible, no good, very bad idea.

“Is this going to be an Early Decision Club secret?” Belle asks

“Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,” Tink sings.

“Pretty Little Liars?” Emma asks, instinctively latching onto anything that will get her out of this conversation.

“I'm addicted. I can’t stop no matter how bad it gets,” Tink explains, dropping her head shamefully.

“This can also be a no judgement club. We’ll save that for the college admissions,” Belle says.

Marian. “Okay, it’s agreed. We won’t tell Ruby.”

Emma feels only slightly relieved by that because maybe Ruby won’t find out and Marian and Belle won’t pry, but they’ll _know_ , they know and Emma isn’t ready for that, no matter how drunk she is.

“So,” Tink says, “Never have I ever been gone down on.”

Emma takes that drink, too. Another bad idea, but she finds herself emptying the last drops of her glass anyway. She’s too drunk, probably, so she grabs for the container of pretzels and digs in. Ten pretzels later, she catches Elsa’s embarrassed, “...What happens in Switzerland, stays in Switzerland.”

“Never have I ever given a blowjob.”

Emma stuffs ten more pretzels in her mouth before she pours herself another glass and takes the drink. There’s practically nothing left in their bottle.

“We’re going to have to switch to water soon,” Emma comments.

Marian reaches for the last of the bottle and nods. “We’re cutting you off,” Marian agrees.

“Alright, alright,” Elsa says, stopping Marian from chastising Emma further. “Never have I ever had intercourse. Like penetration, I mean.”

“Scientific,” Tink remarks.

This - this is the one Emma was dreading. Her hand hovers over her drink. She doesn’t take it, and yet the pretzels, the pizza, the cupcakes and the alcohol still sit uneasy on her stomach.

The only one who takes the drink is Marian who blushes and says, “If only Ruby was here to regale us with her tale of Jefferson’s talents in bed.”

Jefferson, with the baby – little baby blob Grace - on the way. Jefferson and Ruby seem like so long ago now that Emma’s thinking about it. 10th grade was so long ago, but it’s crept back up tonight in the worst of ways.

She might be the one having a panic attack now, but she can’t tell.

“They didn’t use a bed,” Emma says.

“Hey, now, we’ve all heard the story. No need to rehash,” Tink says.

“Ruby would be hurt to hear you say that,” Marian chimes in.

“Ruby would get over it,” Belle says, stiff and formal and a sharp reminder that ‘Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about,’ without having to say it.

“I really need to pee,” Emma blurts out in the silence that follows.

It eases the tension a bit. At least, they all speak at once, Marian turning to Emma to say, “Yes, and then come back and get a drink of water. You’re going to have a hell of a hangover.”

Emma nearly trips over the container of pretzels, but she makes a fantastic recovery and makes it to the bathroom without injury.

She needs to pee, true, but mostly she needs to freak out in silence. That was less fun than she thought it would be, and she hadn’t expected it to be much fun at all. It’s weird to think how things she thought would never bother her keep creeping over the edges of her conscious, or subconscious considering she’s too drunk to actually be totally conscious. She could probably fall asleep on the toilet if she lets herself, if she lets her heart stop beating so damn fast.

“Come on, Emma, I need to pee, too,” Tink calls out.

“Hold on a moment. I’ll be fast,” Emma says.

And she is quick about it. She steels herself faster than her drink dulled mind should be able to accomplish and finishes up in the bathroom. When she opens the door, Tink’s leaning against the wall, foot tapping away on the floor. She jumps up, practically hovering over to Emma’s side.

“Thanks,” Tink says. “Belle has a pitcher of water for you.”

“A pitcher,” Emma says. It’s sad that she knows Tink isn’t exaggerating. “I'll be back in here ten times before the night is up,” Emma adds.

“At least Belle’s bathroom is friendly and inviting. Oooh, there are flowers on the windowsill, how lovely.”

Emma’s face falls as Tink closes the door behind her. Leaning against the doorjamb, she breathes out the last of her anxiety and adjusts her smile until she’s sure she’s glowing with drunken happiness before she returns to the rest of the group.

They fall asleep watching North & South, Emma having gone to the bathroom only four fewer times than she thought she would, so it only makes sense that she wakes up, sweating and shaking in the middle of the night and has to carefully tread around the other sleeping girls to use the bathroom.

She washes her face in the sink, but it only makes her cold. It doesn’t stop any of the feelings taking hold of her. Heading out of the bathroom, she picks her way quietly through the dark and into the kitchen. 

At least she _thought_ she was sufficiently quiet, but as she’s closing the refrigerator door, footsteps draw behind her. Emma turns to see Belle clutching at her sides while she dances on her toes.

“Floor’s cold,” Belle says.

Emma wiggles her toes in her bright pink fuzzy socks. She looks down at her feet and then back at Belle.

“I wouldn’t know. Did I wake you up?” she asks.

“No, I’ve been awake since we went to bed,” Belle explains.

She nods her head back and forth like she’s ready to sleep on her feet, but can’t find it in herself to close her eyes.

“What’s keeping you up?” Emma asks.

“I’ve been thinking, Emma.”

“That’s dangerous,” Emma says when Belle doesn’t elaborate.

Belle laughs quietly. “You have no idea. See, Regina’s visit is on Thursday and I was thinking that I should have Killian with me during it.”

Emma swallows and ventures, “Wouldn’t that be a bad idea since you…”

Belle raises an eyebrow, her tone stressed when she says, “I know what happened, but…I don’t think I ever told you?”

“I know some of it,” Emma says. Avoiding this conversation would not be in her best interests, but her nails are coming dangerously close to breaking skin and she knows it’s only going to get worse.

“You know, I didn’t know about Mr. Gold. I didn’t know any of what he’d done, I thought he was just...he was always nice to me, if in a particularly mean way. I didn’t know.”

Belle worries at her hands.

“I know,” Emma says kindly. “But?”

“But Killian did.”

Color Emma surprised and _extremely_ confused.

“He _did_?”

“That’s why he kissed me, actually.”

Belle nods like this makes all the sense in the world. It doesn’t.

“Um?” Emma asks.

“I caught him breaking into Mr. Gold’s office. He asked me to help him because he was looking for contact information for Mr. Gold’s ex-wife, Milah,” she says.

Emma knows this part, so she says, “I knew about Milah. She’s the one that gave the evidence to my dad - and Kathryn helped keep her from getting charged as an accomplice to Gold’s crime. I know they wanted to charge her with obstructing justice or something because she took so long to come forward.”

Emma remembers that part really well. Sitting with Milah’s son, Neal, while she listened to Kathryn argue with the DA in the next room.

Milah kept looking through the glass at Neal, and Neal refused to look at her, but he kept staring at Emma, and she’d felt so awful in that moment - she hasn’t thought about that in years though, or at least, not until tonight.

She doesn’t want to think about it tonight either. She asks, “But wait, what exactly happened with Killian? Like I know he said that you two were -”

Emma runs her fingers together, not so crude as to the “finger in the hole” motion, but clear enough that Belle blushes.

“When he heard Mr. Gold coming back, he grabbed me. Begged me to help him. I was about to call for Mr. Gold instead when the door opened, Superintendent Mills and Mr. Gold both there to hear Killian say, ‘We can’t do this anymore, Belle. Especially not here.’ And that’s when he kissed me.”

Well, that explains a lot.

“That’s why Regina hates you both so much? She must know the truth now, why the hell is she holding some kind of grudge?” Emma asks.

“Because the truth doesn’t matter. Killian still broke into the office. I’m still his ‘accomplice.’ The only reason it’s not on my record is because of your mom.”

And the only reason Killian wasn’t arrested is because of her dad.

Isn’t it funny how these things seem to work?

“You should do it,” Emma says. She clears her throat. “You should have him there, I mean. Rub Regina’s nose in it. She deserves it, and it’s not like she can say anything if you two are completely professional. He seems professional when he’s around you.”

“He’s more professional when he’s not around you.”

Belle laughs, smothering the sound with her hand when it echoes in the kitchen. Emma would laugh too, but she’s too busy not being amused to do so.

“I’ll be sure to avoid the library on Thursday, then,” Emma says.

-

Emma’s fantastic at avoiding things, so it’s easy to make a path that takes her away from the library and out of Regina’s view for the entirety of her visit. Emma only knows when it ends because her mother finds her during lunch and asks, “Want to join me in my office?”

Her mom flutters with nervous energy so Emma says yes. As they’re walking through the hall, her mom says, “So, how’s your day going?”

“It’s fine. What about yours? I mean, did the visit go well?”

She just _knew_ her mom was bursting with news.

“I just found out that two other schools want to adopt our Safe Sex Drive format because it’s worked so well here. So, Superintendent Mills asked me to run a workshop in Portland for it.”

“That’s so -”

Her mother barrels on. “Well, actually, she demanded it of me, but you know? That’s just how she is. But anyway isn’t that -”

“- great! It really is,” Emma says. “I’m happy for you. So when’s the workshop?”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, Emma. I know we set aside that weekend before Halloween for college visits, but -”

“I see,” Emma says.

Her mother pouts, lip trembling sadly. “I don’t want you to go alone, but you know that weekend is always stressful for your Dad, too, so I was wondering if you could find maybe one of your fellow seniors to go with you?”

“You’d let me and another student go college visiting? Alone?” Emma asks. It sounds too good to be true.

“I would if that student were trustworthy,” her mother says.

She gives Emma a look, which means Victor and Jefferson are so out of the question.

“Ruby can’t. She has her weekend with her mentee,” Emma murmurs. “Belle, Elsa, Tink and Marian don’t need to, they applied early decision. I’ll have to see, maybe someone in my classes can go.”

She shouldn’t feel so excited at the thought of not being able to go on college visits, but the possibility is like a minor anxiety lifted off her shoulders. Mainly, because it’s less than a month out and she still has no idea where she would visit anyway. Sure, she has some of the common app filled out but she has an absolute zero amount of schools chosen.

Prof. Hopper said she should try for at least twelve, even though, “With your good grades Emma, you don’t need as many safeties, so feel free to add six or seven reaches to the list.”

“Oh, yes, that’s a good idea. I really don’t want you to miss out, Emma, and time is running short. I really am sorry that I can’t go with you.”

Emma smiles and doesn’t even fight when her mother stops them to lay a kiss on her forehead. All she says is, “I know, Mom, and it’s alright. I’ll figure something out.”

Her mother sighs happily and as they start to walk again, she says, “In the meantime, you can start lining up some alumni interviews for the weekends before and after that. I can take you to Portland if I have to.”

Emma waves goodbye to the momentary lessening of her anxiety, waves forlornly and wipes an invisible tear from her eye.

-

“That doesn’t look like French,” Killian says

Emma keeps pulling out the pamphlets anyway, slumping down onto the floor when they’re all laid out on her lap, all 53 of them. Her head hurts. She could probably use a Tylenol right now. Or an anvil to the head. Either will do.

“I know, but I need help. I swear to god, I really don’t know how to do this. How did you decide?” Emma asks. “I know you said you had a few that you were looking at.”

He bends down beside her, taking the pile from her lap.

“Yeah, I really -” He pauses and keeps flipping through the pile. She watches his lips as he counts. He stops at 30 and turns to frown at her. “My decision making is not going to work for you. You’re not on any sports teams.”

“I like track,” Emma says.

“Not competitively and not in a way colleges are interested in. You should focus on your volunteer work.”

“Volunteer work?” she asks.

“When you help out your parents. That counts as volunteer work since you helping out your parents always seems to end with you at some kind of fundraiser or drive or selling me cookies for the animal shelter,” Killian says.

“You loved those cookies,” Emma says. “And I knew that. I just - forgot.”

She turns her head away to stare at the drawers on his desk. There’s something carved into the wood there that she’s never noticed before. It looks sort of like an ‘N’ or it could be an ‘L,’ like someone started to write their name then thought better of it.

Emma closes her eyes.

When Killian’s hand touches hers she just presses her fingers against his palm.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he says.

She opens her eyes to look at him. His expression is too kind, too understanding.

“I’m past overwhelmed and at the stage where the tears are too exhausted to fall,” she says.

He lets go of her hand. Emma starts to reach out, but lets her hand fall back down, fruitlessly grabbing at her own thigh.

“That’s some very sad imagery. Come on, what are you interested in? Staying close?” He pauses, and his voice is quieter when he asks, “Going far?”

Her heart flees her chest at the second option so she says, “Staying close, definitely.”

Killian takes the pile of pamphlets and tosses everything aside that isn’t on the Eastern seaboard, which leaves her with about 30 colleges instead of 52.

That’s some kind of progress.

“Big school or little school?” he asks.

Emma shrugs. “I don’t really care either way?”

“I think you’d do well at a smaller school,” Killian suggests.

“Why?”

“Because you’re more likely not to stay by yourself if you know everyone and everyone knows you?” he says.

“Are you saying I’m a loner?” she asks sharply. Crossing her arms over her chest, she glares at him and his pile.

He fires right back with a, “That’s not what I’m saying. When we’re at parties, the big ones at Victor’s, you always find a quiet corner to sit in. Hell, sometimes you just sit there by yourself with your phone.”

“I’m not a loner,” Emma grumbles. “I just feel more comfortable around people I know really well.”

“Which is exactly what I said,” he says.

He’s right. She’s wrong. Moving on...

“Fine. Smaller schools, are you happy?” she snaps, less angry than she is grumpy.

“Are you happy with that decision?”

She thinks about it for a long moment, really thinks about it. Closes her eyes and tries to imagine herself on a large beautiful campus with thousands and thousands of students who don’t know her name and never will.

It seems so lonely.

“I am,” Emma says when she opens her eyes.

He gives her half the pile and says, “Throw aside all the ones that are over 10,000 students.”

When they recombine their piles, she has 15 schools.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get under 40,” Emma says.

Her voice rises and she stares with wide eyes, looking between him and pile. Not even a pile anymore, it’s a stack that they can lay out across the floor and not look like a freaking library of colleges.

“Have you done your research on any of these?” he asks, looking over the 15 schools. “I have some of these on my list, actually, so I can help with a few.”

“You _do_?”

He flips his head to the side, brows furrowed together. “Why do you say it like that?” he asks.

Emma moves off her butt to crawl a little closer to him. Grabbing his arm, she asks, “Have you visited any of them? Done any interviews?”

He searches her face, bemusement written in his not-smile. Carefully, he says, “Not yet. I have to apply for travel vouchers and talk to coaches and stuff. Why?”

“This is a very serious question, so please don’t laugh,” she says.

Killian nods. “I’ll put on my serious face,” he says and straightens his expression.

“Do you have any games the weekend before Halloween? Any tests or anything? Because my mom was supposed to go college visiting with me, just the schools close by, that you can drive to and from in a day, but she can’t and -”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks before she can finish her tirade.

It was all leading to that anyway, so she says, “Yes, please?”

He doesn’t laugh, so Emma counts it as a plus, but he also doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he does speak, he speaks as fast as her, words close to jumbled when he says, “I don’t have any games that weekend, so we’re good there. Screw the tests, this is more important. Wait, are we driving?”

“I think my parents are getting me a car for my birthday, so yeah?” she affirms.

Emma moves back so he can stand, which he does quickly, but he does offer her a hand before he crushes her rejected pamphlets beneath his feet.

“That sounds like it was supposed to be a surprise,” he remarks.

Emma rolls her eyes. “They asked me what my favorite color is _and_ then asked me ‘Red? You wouldn’t drive around in that color,’ so I’m getting a yellow car of some kind. They can’t keep a secret.”

“Yellow? You’d drive around in _that_ color?”

She honestly isn’t sure whether he means to sound overly offended or whether he truly thinks that her taste is terrible.

“I like yellow,” Emma says. “Anyway, tell me what schools are on your list so we can like google maps them and stuff and see which ones we could feasibly visit without collapsing in on ourselves.”

“That’s a lovely visual,” he comments drily, so Emma feels the need to respond brightly.

“Not really,” she says, cheery as can be, and she is cheery, _cheered_ by the fact that she has 15 schools to research. 15 isn’t 50. 50 is wanting to lay down on the floor and just die. 15 is “you can cry while filling out the applications.”

He crushes more pamphlets underneath his feet as he crosses to his file cabinet to grab his laptop. “Here, let me open my ‘stuff’ folder and pull up some of my research.”

So that isn’t his porn folder. Emma’s cheered by that too. She’s practically glowing with happiness in fact.

“You could’ve just told me that’s what was in that folder,” she says.

Killian makes a choking sound while his fingers clack on the keyboard, and says, “And have you freak out about schools?”

“I wouldn’t have freaked out,” she protests.

He flips his head back to look at her when he says, “Maybe not, but I didn’t want to stress you more.”

“That’s considerate.”

He grunts, so Emma walks over to his side and taps him to make him look at her. Even with Killian doing the deep blue sea eyes at her, she doesn’t choke on her words.

“No, I really mean it. Thank you,” Emma says.

He lifts one hand to tap at his mouth. It takes a second but when she gets the insinuation, she pushes at his shoulder.

“I’m not going to kiss you in thanks,” she says.

Killian laughs, grabbing at the file cabinet to keep from completely falling on his ass. With an accusing finger pointed at her, he says, “You’re just terrified you might enjoy it too much and we’ll end up sprawled out on my bed again.”

“That’s not - I’m not scared of _that_ ,” Emma says and backs away from him. Her legs hit the back of his bed, so she twists to walk back in the other direction.

“You aren’t? Seem terrified to me.” He grins, lecherous and dangerous, and continues on to mockingly say, “Shaking in your boots.”

It’s easy to respond to that one when she wiggles her toes, and says, “I took them off already.”

“Shaking in your purple socks at the thought of us in this bed...”

She needs to nip this in the bud, so of course she does the exact opposite, licking her lips and playfully fluttering her eyelashes, Elsa style.

“Doing what exactly?” she asks.

He quiets, surprised.

“Whatever you want.”

She runs her head back and forth, considering and says, “We’re still going down the list, and we’re only at number five.”

“We could do that, or rather, _you_ could do that,” he says. “If that’s what you want. Or we could study for French.”

“Here’s some study material for you.” Emma clears her throat and perfects her best French accent, which she knows is shit but it’s the thought that counts and the widening of his eyes when she says, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” and crooks her finger at him is worth the embarrassment.

“We’re going to fail,” Killian says, but that doesn’t stop him from closing the distance between them.

He grabs her face and kisses her, too fast, too strong, consuming her ability to even breathe, but it’s when the kiss settles into something softer that she loses all sense of everything but his touch.

Something tears beneath her feet as they walk backwards. Killian stumbles a bit, so she lets him go, and looks down to see what tore.

Just a pamphlet from the reject pile.

Emma’s about to laugh about it when Killian grabs her wrist and pulls her down on top of him.

“This is how people get injured, you know. You should’ve warned me,” she says when she falls and hits him hard.

“I think you cracked one of my ribs with your elbow.”

He winces, so she presses her hand where her knee hit him, rubbing gently. When he all but melts beneath her, relaxing into a pile of sprawled limbs, she climbs off of him and crawls across the bed. Laying down the “correct” way, she stares up into the ceiling. Emma notices the crack above him and says, “Aren’t you afraid it’s going to fall down around you?”

Killian cuddles up beside her, turning his gaze to look up too. “No, I should be fine for another couple of years. Which is all I need.”

“For what?”

“Well, hopefully, I’ll get a scholarship, a part time job, and I’ll have enough saved up by then to fix up this house,” he says.

Emma turns into him. He smells good, so she presses her face into the crook of his neck and says, “I hope so, too.”

He shifts, hands moving up beneath her shirt, brushing gently over her belly. The touches are feather light, more like finger kisses than the firm touches she’s used to. It makes her stomach flutter and her body feel weightless, like she’s drunk off his touch.

“Higher?” she says.

She punctuates this with a kiss against his neck, right beneath where the hair is starting to spring up, scratchy and rough. Emma’s sure her voice is too muffled for him to have heard, but even still he shifts a little closer and starts making trails up past her belly button, still gentle enough that it’s more sensual, she guesses, than sexual. That is until his fingers reach the underwire of her bra - his touch firms then, as he reaches around her back to unclasp it with one hand.

“You’re good at that,” she says.

Killian hears that one, chuckling when she arches into the warmth of his hands as they cover her breasts. She kisses his neck and tilts her head up to kiss up his jaw, hoping that he’ll turn just - just _like that_.

Her mouth meets his.

Closing her eyes, she kisses him and while her tongue traces at his lips, his hands move over her breasts, soft sometimes, other times squeezing but not hurting. Her nipples strain towards the heat of his hands and when his finger brushes one, she breaks the kiss.

“Emma?”

“Please, just touch right there again.”

Swooping forward, Killian captures her mouth again and kisses her while his fingers gently twist at her nipples, making her ignite from her center outwards. Her head feels warm when she presses her forehead to his - or it could be him.

To be sure, Emma draws her hands up beneath his shirt as well. She knows she isn’t being gentle like he was, but there’s no need to be. Where she’s soft, he’s all hard muscle and god, so much hair, it’s fucking ridiculous. When did he hit puberty, when he was 8?

Okay, she knows when he hit puberty because she was there the day he suddenly turned from awkward limbs to Captain Killian Jones of the Rugby Team, but still - what the fuck?

 _Fuck_.

The slow slide of his hands from her breasts down to her waist makes her shiver and as he starts to unbutton her jeans, she shimmies her hips, helping him to get them down.

They stop kissing, focused only their shared goal: getting Emma naked.

“You, too,” Emma says when her pants are at her ankles and his hands are already moving for her underwear.

Sighing, Killian says, “Who am I to deny you when you ask it like that?”

“I didn’t even ask. That was a demand,” she laughs out, sitting up to draw her shirt over her head. Her bra’s already hanging off her shoulders so she just slips out of it and adds it to the growing pile of clothes at the bottom of his bed.

She keeps her underwear on for a moment, just so she can watch him as he undresses. He meets her gaze, and she knows he’s about to make a show of it so she looks away. Emma doesn’t want a show, she wants -

Her underwear go with the rest of her clothes, and then she stretches out on her back, fingers moving languidly over her own sides. She echoes the path of his touches, starting from her belly and gently drawing them up to her still hard nipples. With her eyes closed, she can almost imagine he’s touching her too.

And then Killian’s laying back down beside her _and_ touching her, too _._ He’s naked, too warm to be dressed any longer. Opening her eyes, she looks at him in warning when his hands move lower than they should.

“I can’t touch?” He looks at her from beneath his lashes, pouting.

“That’s not what we’re doing,” she says. “You said whatever I want.”

“And you want to touch yourself?”

She confirms this with a nod because her sense of propriety, her classy-o-meter, starts to whine as it dips below proper levels. It catches the “I want to touch myself,” and zips her mouth shut.

Emma closes her eyes again and starts her caresses up again. It’s starting to get to her, the touching and his hand is on her breast again, not helping the flood of arousal. It isn’t long before her trail ends and her fingers are resting over her clit. She brushes her fingers over herself and makes the tiniest sound of loss when he lets her go.

“Where are you going?” she asks him as he lifts off the bed.

“I have to get a condom. I don’t want to make a mess.”

She blushes, but it only makes her want to touch herself more, knowing that he’s as fucked as she is. Well, not fucked, exactly.

Emma loses that train of thought real fast when he sits down on the edge of the bed and she hears the wrapper tear open.

“I’ve never done this with a condom on,” Killian says when he slides in beside her. “Should be interesting.”

Emma nods, but doesn’t say anything. She’s making noise, she can hear herself, her breaths coming short, shorter than the strokes of her fingers over her clit. Can’t seem to make herself stop making the sounds, especially when he rolls beside her and she can feel it as he starts to stroke himself beside her. With each stroke, his knuckles hit her thigh, and at one point, when she finally grabs at his side to hold herself steady, his cock brushes against her, too.

“Emma, can I help?” he asks plaintively.

“You can kiss me,” she says.

She turns her head to the side as he shifts enough that his cock is rubbing against her. It’s not exactly in keeping with what they’re supposed to be doing - but they’re supposed to be doing French, actually, so if they veer off course of the list a little bit, it isn’t as bad as what they’ve already done.

He doesn’t kiss her mouth, which is super confusing until he ducks his head to mouth at her breast.

Emma speeds up her fingers. She doesn’t usually come like this, with her fingers alone, but with his mouth on nipple, tongue licking over it, his hand curled tight around her thigh and his other stroking his cock against her leg, she thinks she might not need anything else to get her off. Just him.

She bites her tongue against the moan when he starts to suck at her breast, but it’s a losing battle. She can’t breathe like this, just through her nose, not when she’s so close and the heat is flooding her brain. Emma opens her mouth and what falls out are a catalogue of fucks - fuck, fucking fuck, fucking hell, oh jesus fuck. It goes on for miles.

Killian lets himself go, releases her entirely, mouth moving off her breast, and rolls her over so she’s back on her side. She slips up trying to readjust, directing a look at his face.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I wanted to watch,” he says, his darkened eyes darting downwards.

“Seriously?” she asks.

“Yes, seriously. The last thing I want to see before I come is you like this, touching yourself in my bed. Is that too much to ask for?” he demands.

“It’s a hell of a way to ask it,” she says.

“Should I say please?”

She hums. “It might help.”

“Should I say it like this?” His voice deepens, much lower and heavier than before and he says, “Please, Emma, I want to watch you come.”

“That’s a good start,” she says.

Good start to a good end. She moves her fingers back between her legs, and okay, he’s right, it’s so much better this way, watching him watch her, and then it’s even better when he says, “Please, bloody fucking -” and takes himself in hand again.

She gets it then, watching him stroke himself, knowing that he’s doing it because of her. She gets it, alright, no need for him to say more, but he does.

“You’re so pretty like this, Emma. Pink is a good color on you.”

Emma’s breath hitches. She has her other hand over her head but she grabs his shoulder, digging in while she rubs in faster circles, more pressure against her clit to add to the pressure in her head.

“I’ve never seen anything - anyone hotter in my entire life,” he says.

“You’re only 18,” she says but the retort is less sharp when her breath is hiccupping and she can’t draw her eyes away from his twisting motions, the jump of his hips as he practically fucks his fist.

Her classy-o-meter goes off, ringing in her head, but his voice breaks through, “You’re always pretty, Emma. Beautiful.”

She pinches her clit lightly, tighter when it feels like she’s being pulled over the edge and says something along the lines of a curse or his name. Could be both. Emma will never know because she comes then and her head is too busy chasing lights to focus on whatever words she’s saying. His words, however, she hears him when he says her name, feels him when he grabs her hip and squeezes tight enough to bruise.

“Ow,” she says when his grip loosens.

She falls down onto her back as he issues a tired “Sorry.”

“I could make you sorry,” she says, poking at his side.

“Nothing could make me sorry, right now. Not even you,” he breathes.

She coughs, her heartbeat still flying in her chest. She keeps trying to catch her breath, but everything still feels deliciously warm so it’s hard.

“You look pretty beat,” Emma says as he draws his hand over his head. “Are we still going to do French?”

“Yeah, if you’re up for it,” he says.

“I am, but I -”

She wraps her arms around herself in silent indication of her predicament. Her very wet and sweaty predicament.

“Let me go grab a towel for you and I have to toss this,” he says.

He lifts up with a tired grunt and she hears a whispered “fuck” as he slips off the condom.

“You’re bad at that, aren’t you?” Emma says. “I could teach you.”

Killian flips back to look at her. “Another time, dear.” He stares at her a beat longer, his expression softening. “You look super comfortable in my bed.”

Drawing the sheet up from where it was knotted at her back, Emma says, “Just get me a towel.”

He laughs and keeps laughing after he’s disposed of the condom, thrown on a pair of sweatpants, and jogged out the room. Returning with a towel moments later, Killian automatically turns as she cleans herself up. His sheets are another story, but she can’t do anything about that save helping him with a load of laundry.

He kept her clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed, so it’s easy to slip back into them, though she feels uncomfortably sweaty still. She’s going to need two showers at least. They’ll have to keep this study session short.

“You can turn around now,” Emma says.

“Thanks. Do you need your bag or should we just use my textbook, have a back and forth?”

“Sounds good to me,” she says.

“I have a question, first,” Killian asks. He’s not nervous, his gaze too steady for that when he says, “I know I wasn’t your first choice for travel mate, but I’m curious as to why you came to me to help with your college decisions.”

The ease of his question eases her into answering truthfully.

“You relax me,” Emma says softly. “Everyone else just makes me freak out about the process, but I don’t feel so… freaked out around you.”

She shrugs. It’s nothing at all, really, just a casual recognition that oh, she feels _good_ around him. Even when he’s looking at her like he is now. Or especially, when he’s looking at her with that amazement lighting up his expression.

He smiles genuinely and says, “Thank you for inviting me, and thank you, by the way, for telling Belle to include me in Regina’s visit. I didn’t know you had such faith in my abilities.”

“I didn’t doubt you,” he adds.

“Just yourself?” she shoots back.

He doesn’t answer that, choosing to move for his French book instead.

She frowns.

“Belle told me about Gold. How did you know?” she asks.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says. “Another time perhaps.”

It doesn’t sound like a promise, but Emma knows if she pushes, he’ll either snap or fold, no in between and she’d rather not - not when she feels so good, and his words are echoing in her ear.  “You always look pretty, Emma. Beautiful.”

She looks up at him as he hovers by his desk. When he turns around, she grins and says, “All things considered, I mean, considering that it is night and all, this has been a pretty perfect day.”

When he smiles back at her, she feels better than good. Better than great.

She feels _perfect._


	6. at this rate, i’ll be headed for electric chairs. i’m only human with my cross to bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #6 - Clothed;  
> There's a change up in this chapter, where you finally get to hear a bit of Killian's voice (and you'll definitely being hear a bit more of that)  
> Also, I don't think I've said this before (which is a major fuckup on my part) but I'm so, so grateful for your comments and kudos, they completely make my day. Thank you for enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it

“Um, can you talk for a moment?”

“Sure, but why are we whispering?”

Emma rolls over, careful not to roll too far and fall off the bed as she waits for Ruby’s response. So far, she’s only getting static and heavy breathing.

“Hello, Darth Vader. What’s up?” Emma says.

“Sorry, Belle’s asleep and I’m hiding in the bathroom,” Ruby says.

At first Emma laughs. “Why are you hiding in the bathroom?” she asks, but when Ruby hyperventilates into the phone, she races to add, “Ruby, what’s wrong?”

“I may have applied to Stanford. Like put in the application right before I called you, while hiding in the bathroom.”

Emma sits up in bed and pushes her back up against the headboard. Staring into the dark of her bedroom, she says, “Oh boy, Ruby. I hate to break it to you, but I think that’s probably the -”

“Worst thing I’ve ever done?” Ruby squeaks.

“The cutest,” Emma corrects.

Ruby gulps loudly. A whispered fuck later, Emma hears movement in the background and then Belle’s voice, muffled but obviously her if Ruby’s high-pitched whine of, “I’m fine,” is anything to go by. She never sounds like that around Granny unless she’s begging for a day off - though, it sounds like she’s going to need a year off just to catch her breath.

The phone beeps ‘call ended.’ Emma waits 10 seconds, perfect timing for Ruby’s text.

**1:34: i’m so fucked**

Emma nods and types back, “ain’t that the truth.”

**1:35: i hate you. can you send me your stats hw**

Emma replies with, “hate is a strong word for the person letting you copy her homework. get out of the bathroom and go to bed.”

**1:37: you’re the best, i love you, i’m going to die**

Ignoring Ruby’s text, Emma clicks into her google docs and sends Ruby the file that took her several hours to complete, but she can’t begrudge Ruby for asking when Stanford app’s just shed years off her life, probably.

Laying back down, Emma tries to sleep for several long minutes but as is always the case when she’s woken up in the middle of the night, getting back to sleep is next to impossible, especially when her best friend’s just applied to go halfway across the country with her girlfriend. That’s some kind of high school romance bullshit, and it _is_ the cutest thing Ruby’s ever done and it makes Emma’s stomach twist and curl and clap about like the energizer bunny. Throwing on a movie would be a mistake right now. Reading a book will just give her a headache.

Out of options, Emma picks up her phone, stares at all her game apps and texts Killian instead.

\---

Color him surprised, flabbergasted, and all those lovely words that detail the color that is burning up his cheeks and his ears when his phone vibrates across his calculus textbook, drawing him away from his homework.

The difference between being fucked in the general sense, where he's certain that he's going to fail his calculus test and maybe lose another game because he can’t keep his focus, and being _fucked_ is how a 1:41AM text from Emma turns his whole evening around in a heartbeat - or two, because it skips at some point, and he feels the one-two dance echo in the pit of his stomach when he actually reads the text.

**1:41: are you awake?**

There’s much to be said for all the questions packed into that one simplified query, but the one he hears the loudest is: “Does she want to speak to me or is she just looking for anyone at this point?” He wishes he could say for certain that it’s the former, but he’s self-aware to the point that it is misery inducing to know that he thinks the world of Emma and she wouldn’t say the same of him.

At least, not yet.

He had no reason to be hopeful before his accidental discovery, but their relationship has shifted past the point of no-return - and he has plenty to say should she claim otherwise, in words, touches, and kisses that would leave them both clinging to each other... he hopes.

Hope is powerful, he’s finding, but he can’t live on that alone, so he carefully types out his reply of, “perhaps. depends on why you’re asking.”

Emma’s responding text is too fast for it to be anything but annoyance driving her on, and although he hasn’t left her enough room for a scathing remark, she makes a valiant attempt.

**1:44: /why/ i’m asking?**

Killian leans back in his desk chair, lifting his head to the ceiling with a weary smile. There’s a crack over here, too, not as deep, but visible enough that Emma would probably be concerned. He’s too self-aware because his chest burns with warmth at the thought that she would be concerned for him, and thus, his face burns, too, but at least she can’t see.

She sees enough as it is.

He shifts his attention back to his keyboard, to _Lady Emma Swan, online_ and he writes, “maybe you’re texting me because you have no one else to talk to - or maybe you’re texting me because you want to talk to me.”

**1:46: why not both?**

Why not both indeed? It’s a question that deserves pondering and he ends up writing out several drafts - “because I want you to want to talk to me,” sounds selfish (he is) and “i’m surprised you have no one else to talk to at 2AM” sounds too sarcastic (and he’s not Emma, he doesn’t wrap his feelings in wit; he’d rather lay it all out on the table, even if it means he’s leaving himself open to her attack).

Finally he settles on a mixture of both, enough sarcasm to keep her from disappearing on him, enough seriousness to keep himself from going mad with all his pent up feelings (he has a lot at nearly 2AM when he’s seated at his desk, calculus notes before him, his back aching from practice and the hard-backed desk chair.)

“it’s true that i’d rather it be for those reasons than homework or something equally as dire.”

“and I’d hate to appear like I don’t want you to text me because i do”

“but why are you even awake? you seem like an 11pm, sleep straight through your alarm kind of girl.”

The sarcasm was a good idea. He gets a quick response from that.

**1:48: i don’t sleep through my alarm all the time.**

**1:48: ruby woke me up, so here I am, awake and unable to sleep**

He supposes he should ask her about why Ruby woke her up or express some curiosity to her sleeping habits, but he’s too focused on the fact that she texted him when she couldn’t sleep.

 _You relax me_.

Killian grins and replies, “want me to tell you a bedtime story? sing you a lullaby?”

**1:51: try knocking me on the head first before you try killing me**

He laughs and at least Ratched isn’t home to awaken because it’s rather loud.

“come on, my bedtime stories will put you right to sleep.” It only takes a second’s thought for him to add, “and I swear I don’t mean that in a sexual way,” not just to cover his bases but because he doesn’t mean it that way. Not that he couldn’t if he tried, but that’s an added frustration he doesn’t need and she’s already eased his rising headache, he doesn’t need to replace it with another ache.

Still, Killian isn’t exactly serious when he makes the suggestion so her reply hits him right where he’s vulnerable.

**1:54: wait, do you want to call me?**

He has google up in one second and her number rung in the next.  It rings for long enough that he’s sure he’s moved too fast, but then her voice is sleep raw in his ears.

“Hello.”

“You picked up. Brilliant!” he exclaims.

He should’ve dialed that back probably, but it’s too late now and Emma giggles in his ears - and forget what he said about not meaning that in a sexual way, the sound goes straight down his spine, heat seeping in already.

“You’re too excited for 2AM,” Emma says.

She’s right.

Trying to steer away from that uncomfortable truth, he says, “I’ve been up doing some calc homework. It’s some pretty exciting stuff.”

Her sigh is so faked that he bites back a laugh when she says, “Is that what my bedtime story is going to be about? Calc?”

Deciding to meet her on her level he says, “Bedtime story?” with as much ignorance as he can muster when he’s looking at the PDF for ‘Goodnight Moon.’

“Killian,” she says, all faked annoyance and he can’t keep this up when she sounds like that.

Adopting what he’ll call his Orator Voice, he reads, “In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of -”

“A cow jumping over the moon. Are you seriously reading me ‘Goodnight Moon?’?”

She’s giggling again and Killian’s not sure whether this is his nightmare or his best dream yet.

It’s probably a bit of both.

“Do _you_ seriously have that book memorized? I just pulled it up on the computer.”

He’s laughing again, louder than before and this is definitely not a good way to put someone to sleep, by sounding “ _too excited for 2AM_.”

“It’s a classic, of course I remember it,” Emma argues. She’s pouting; he can tell when she scoffs, “That is such a copout.”

Affecting ignorance again, he asks, “A copout?”

“Tell me a story that I don’t know the ending to. Preferably not involving rabbits.”

There’s a story there in the little whine in her voice, and although the sound hits him low again, heat building uncomfortably, he says, “Oh, you have something against rabbits, _Swan_?”

“What are you, part of the Rabbit Defense League? One bit my finger in the first grade. I’ve sworn off the little beasts,” Emma says.

She’s grumpy about rabbits of all the creatures. It’s endearing.

“I bet you were a little beast yourself at that age, Emma,” he teases.

“Stop projecting your childhood onto mine. I was a good kid,” she says.

He wouldn’t project his childhood onto hers, wouldn’t want to taint her good memories so. Instead he opts for a teasing joke of, “‘ _was’_ is rather obvious.”

“I’m _still_ good,” she _whines_. Again.

Killian feels the growl in his voice this time, but is helpless to stop it when he’s half-hard in his chair. It’s so fucked. He tries not to imagine her biting her lip, her eyebrows dipped together in indignation, but obviously he fails.

“That you are,” he says and chuckles into the phone.

“Killian, I’m going to hang up on you,” Emma warns.

He draws his bottom lip between his teeth and stands from his chair because this isn’t working. Actually, it’s working too well and he’s not going to have this conversation dissolve into the physical. Not at 2AM, not when she sounds so content and he’s the one that put that sound in her voice.

“But then you’ll miss out on your bedtime story,” he says as he begins to pace his floor.

It creaks beneath him, the sound soothing in its familiarity. The floor is slightly cold on his bare feet, still slightly damp from his water bottle mishap, and that helps as well. He’ll have to turn up the heat soon so he can get some proper sleep, but for now he feels wide awake.

“What bedtime story? The one you’re not telling me?” she asks.

He blanks for a moment and he stammers over the first thing that comes to mind, “I - the one where I tell you how I knocked out my two front teeth in the first grade, trying to beat my brother in a bike race.”

 “You did what?”

She sounds awake now too. Perhaps, it isn’t a good choice of bedtime story, and not one he would’ve chosen if he was thinking, but he’s already started, he might as well finish.

“As a young lad, I was rather competitive,” Killian starts.

“Go figure.”

He stops walking to run his knuckles down his face. “Don’t ruin the story - Now, my brother was the protective sort, and also rather bossy so when he made plans to ride his bike down the hill near our home, he made sure to tell me in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed to join him.”

“What made him change his mind?” Emma asks.

He starts up walking only to stop again, staring into the bright light of his desk lamp, waiting for clarity to hit. “Change his mind?” he asks, confused.

“You said you were trying to beat him in a race,” Emma says.

He laughs. Clarity found, Killian walks across the floor again. The memory is soothing too in a way, as he tells hers, “Ah, you mean the race that I created in my own mind? The one I just _knew_ he didn’t agree to only because _he_ justknew he would lose if we went up against each other? Because, _of course_ , I, with my skinny arms, short legs, and training wheels, would defeat my much older and bigger brother.”

“So.” She sounds contemplative. He knows where this is going before she says, “Your head has always been this big?”

“I grew into it, as you can see.” He coughs, and before she can respond to that, he says, “Anyway, Liam went off on his bike and left me behind, so as soon as he rode around the corner, I followed. He hadn’t rolled down the hill yet, and I saw that opportunity -” He’s too excited for 2AM, his voice is rising, but the memory deserves it. “I saw the opportunity for fame and glory, and rode up beside him, screaming in a very manly way, ‘I’ll race you.’ And then I was screaming in a very unmanly way as I slipped and went barreling down the hill at a much faster speed than I expected.”

Killian laughs and touches at the top of his teeth, remembering the pain. Now that he’s broken bones, he knows that it’s not the worst pain in the world, but the memory is sharper than others. He can hear Liam’s (also unmanly) scream in his ears like it’s happening right now.

Realizing Emma’s breathing has faded, he says, “...Luckily, I had the sense to stick out my foot to slow my speed as I approached the bottom. And unluckily, my handlebars were there to break my fall as my bike slipped out beneath me. For my trouble, I got a piggyback ride from my brother, a trip to the local hospital and a painful time eating for a week until my adult teeth grew in.”

She’s breathing louder again as he finishes the story, but it’s the exhausted kind of breathing that culminates in a yawned out, “You’re an idiot.”

“You sound so amazed!” Killian drawls sarcastically.

She actually does sound amazed, which is _amazing_ as many times as she’s echoed the same sentiment with either sarcasm or absolute seriousness.

He wonders if she’s smiling, wishes he could brush his fingers over the shape, but he only has the memory of her smile pressed into his skin to think about as she yawns again and says, “What I sound is tired. Good bedtime story, Captain.”

Killian sighs. “Is this you telling me goodnight?” he asks.

Emma’s all jokes and tired murmuring when she says, “Depends on how they say goodnight where you’re from. Generally, I tend to actually say ‘Goodnight!’”

“You’re being so difficult,” he grumbles.

He knows she needs sleep.

Even better than that, however, he knows he doesn’t want her to go.

“What did you expect?” she asks.

There’s no sarcasm in the question, and sure, it could be exhaustion stealing her humor, but her tone is just a touch too gentle for him to be convinced.

“Nothing less,” he says, holding the phone too tight.

As softly and tiredly as Emma breathes, her voice is loud - her phone must be pressed tight to her cheek - when she says, “I’ll make this easy, then. Thank you for the bedtime story. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She pauses, but she’s breathing the same rate, so she hasn’t fallen asleep. “Maybe. Good night.”

He yawns, too, a real enough sound, but it’s her soft “ _maybe_ ” that dulls his voice, the way it could almost be a promise. Emma makes a noise into the phone, a sleepy sniffle.

“Sweet dreams, Emma. Good night,” he says.

There’s a long moment where neither of them end the call, so it’s just sleepy breathing in his ear before the connection dies out. Killian drops his phone from his face and glances at the time. _22 Minutes and 13 seconds._

22 minutes are too short a time. He knows she’s probably asleep, and the texting app says she isn’t online, but he can’t resist typing out the message.

“shortest 22 minutes of my life. remind me to tell you two bedtime stories next time, see how fast we can waste an hour, little beast.”

He thinks his last bit is particularly genius. Proud of himself for a moment, he glances at the ceiling, taking in the cracks in a new light. They don’t seem so bad anymore. If he googles, he could probably fix some of them up himself.

When he glances back down at his phone, it’s to two little checkmarks next to his text. _Read_.

Grinning, he walks back over to his desk and peels back open his calculus textbook again - and when he wakes up, back and neck aching from his impromptu sleeping session at his desk, he grins again. His phone is flashing, battery almost dead, but it doesn’t matter when Bugs Bunny gives him a look of complete disdain from his screen.

“The resemblance is uncanny,” he types back.

_Lady Emma Swan...online._

_Lady Emma Swan…typing_

Killian grins and cracks his neck. 3 hours of sleep at his desk never felt so good.

\---

Emma groans and leans her head down on the table, hoping the cool surface will make her feel better. It only makes Ruby poke at her harder.

“Why am I not invited? You’re not being fair,” Ruby grouses even louder than before.

Laying down on the table was a mistake because it gives Ruby all the leverage she needs to lean over Emma and say these words directly in her ear. It tickles unpleasantly, echoes even more so.

“Ruby, it’s the _Early Decision_ Club, and if you hadn’t abandoned me this week, I wouldn’t even be in it, so just suck it up and deal with having one evening a week where you can’t take up all of Belle’s time.”

Ruby _deals_ in the most petulant way possible, crocodile tears spilling down her face and onto Emma’s hair as she cries, “Emma, how could you and Belle do this to me? I never thought you two would betray me like this!”

“Oh my god,” Emma says.

She lifts up with a hard swing of her head and shoulders, aiming to knock Ruby back, but her friend is too fast for that, pulling away as Emma makes the move. Still, Emma gets one or two hits in before Ruby swats her hands away, glaring at Emma across the bench, face still wet with tears.

Emma wipes at the back of her neck, glaring at Ruby too.

“I can’t deal with this,” Ruby says. “I - I can’t even look at you right now.”

“I can’t look at you, either. I have homework to do, classes to see to, _you_ to avoid,” Emma says.

A text to respond to, but that’s neither here nor there - and she’ll definitely have to respond to it _there_ , not here. A few tears won’t dim Ruby’s hawk-eyed looks, especially when she’s already suspicious of this special club she isn’t allowed to be a part of.

“Emma, what am I going to do?” Ruby says quietly.

The shift is palpable. Ruby’s easy to read when she’s being serious, her exaggerated expressions dimming into real human emotions, pain being the one etched into her furrowed brow and tight smile.

“Don’t freak out about it,” Emma says.

“I made a hasty decision,” Ruby says.

“You’ve had the supplement done for weeks,” Emma says. “That’s not hasty.”

“I made _a_ decision and I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her that I made this decision. What if she doesn’t want me to come? What if I screw up her chances of going? What if fate has decided to keep us apart?”

Emma sighs. The freak-out is genuine, but Ruby’s approaching exaggerated emotions again so Emma thinks: _WWRLD?_ What would Ruby Lucas do?

“You tell her by sidling up to her in the hall, taking her hand and leading her into one of your favorite dark corners, and winding your fingers in her hair as you say, ‘Hey Belle, I adore you, let’s go suffer at Stanford together!’”

Ruby raises a hand. Emma quiets, waiting while Ruby drops it back down, and says, “I wouldn’t say it like that. You have to be suave, Emma. Not so blunt.”

Well, Emma was close.

“To put it _bluntly_ , Ruby, one, if she doesn’t want you to come, then you have bigger problems than a college app. Two, you can’t possibly do that. Your academics, extracurriculars, and all that crap they care about don’t reflect on hers. Three, fate is bullshit. You make your own decisions and whether you two stay together or not is up to you.”

“You’re right,” Ruby says quickly.

Too quickly, but Emma doesn’t call her out on it.

Pointing out how worried Ruby still is will just worry her more, and Ruby’s nails are looking chipped at the edges. Once the paint job goes, the nails get gnawed off - and then they’re in deep shit. Emma won’t see her friend crying over her broken nails again. It was painful enough the first time, after Ruby’s mother left for the wilds of who the hell knows where and Emma had to clean Ruby’s bleeding nail beds because she didn’t want Granny to know how much it hurt to be left behind on a whim.

Being left behind – Emma was familiar enough with the feeling that it was only right that she should be there to help Ruby through it. She’d do the same for Emma, after all.

“I know I am. You should trust me more.”

Ruby raises her hand again, only to drop it on Emma’s shoulder. “Hey, I trust you with my life. By the way, you said you had homework and stuff? If we’re going to get it done, we should head over to Belle’s.”

“I thought…” Emma squints, eyebrows dipping together.

“I'm not going to avoid her just because...”

... _I’m worried about our future._

Ruby heaves a sigh, and just like that, Emma knows she doesn’t have to worry too much, for now, if Ruby can still manage to pull out all the stops, eyes watering and face paling when she says, “Just because you guys plan to avoid me.”

“It's not avoidance,” Emma says.

Not for the rest of them it isn’t, but for Emma? It is, because if Ruby doesn’t join them on EDC evenings, then the likelihood of her finding out about things Emma should never have admitted is much, much lower. Low enough that it’s not that big of a worry for Emma, not like other things. Not like this French test.

“It sure feels like it. I guess I’ll just have to fill your space with homework and studying,” Ruby says.

“Thank god. You need all the good grades you can get.”

“I know you well enough to recognize that your words aren’t necessarily a dig at me, but I’m mad at you so I’m going to pretend they are,” Ruby says.

That’s Emma’s only warning before the crocodile tears return, loud, and plaintive. Heads turn to look at them. There are people frowning at Emma, shaking their heads. She didn’t hit the puppy, alright? The puppy is a goddamn wolf in disguise, faking at innocence. She glares at them until they turn away, eyes still taking Emma to task even as they spin away. Emma glares at Ruby but she only continues to cry.

She is honestly going to die or kill Ruby, one or the other, they’ll just have to see who’s still standing by the end of the day.

-

The text. The text she’s supposed to be replying to. The _text_. Their conversation has been on halt for over an hour and a half now, and it’s making her antsy, considering that she’s been texting him ever since she woke up. Stupid texts where they’ve argued through pictures of Looney Tunes characters until he’d upped the ante with a disgruntled Minnie Mouse, dumb texts where he’s called her “little beast” at least 10 times and counting, and - the ones that make her stomach twist -

**1:15: I saw you in the hallway. you look lovely for a 2AM, slept through your alarm girl, but i’m unsurprised.**

Emma doesn’t reply to _that_ text until she’s walking into their French class, sending a, “You should pay attention to where you’re going instead of texting me,” to Killian.

Standing just out of the way of the other entering students, she watches him as he pulls out his phone and can’t (and won’t) contain her laugh when he growls and starts to press at the screen. Killian hears her and shoots her a look, slanted brow and gritted smile that slowly turns beguiling. He waves her over, and Emma goes, pulled along like she’s caught in his smile and he’s winding her in, the Emma-fish on a reel.

“Ready for the test?” he asks.

She could laugh. Instead she drops into her chair, wraps her arms around herself, and says, “We studied pretty well.”

His eyes are too bright when he replies, “We did, didn’t we?”

“We did great work on the oral portion. I’m more worried about the written,” Emma says.

He reaches over the separation of their desks and grabs her hand, tracing something into her palm with his fingers, first one and then two dancing across the lines in her skin, jumping off to her fingertips and back down to the center. She’s too busy looking at him, affronted by how easily he makes the motion, and how easily she accepts it as normal to actually attempt deciphering the touch. It’s just -

Yeah, he’s stroking her hand in class. That’s normal. That’s what semi-friends do. That’s how speaking partners roll.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Practicing the writing portion,” he answers.

Emma laughs and snatches her hand back. “Do that on your notebook.”

He doesn’t get a chance to voice the argument she practically see on the tip of his tongue when he licks out and raises his brow because their French teacher starts to come around, passing out tests. All he’s able to do is give her a look - eyes filled with light (honestly, the lighting in the French room is some of the best in the school) and smile small.

The written portion takes only 20 minutes and it’s _easy_. The oral portion is what makes Emma’s heart pound. They’d studied. They’d studied _really_ well, but there’s only one phrase eager to hop off her tongue and Emma’s going to die if she ends up asking her teacher to join her in bed.

Lined up outside the room, they’re all waiting for their chance to meet their doom when Killian sidles up beside her and places a hand on her back. No one can see. No one cares, too busy muttering words under their breath, but Emma still stiffens when he starts massaging his knuckles into the space between her shoulder blades.

“You’re worrying,” he says.

“How do you know that?” she asks, turning her head to him.

With his other hand, he reaches up and pokes her forehead. “It's written all over your face. You’re squinting at the air.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Emma snaps.

His knuckles still on her back and then he’s flipping his hand to rub his palm over her. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re going to do fine. You studied. We practiced for over an hour. I’m not worried.”

“Besides, it’s only oral,” he says.

His innuendo is so bad that Emma forgets all about the stupid song, struggling to hold back her laughter so she doesn’t disturb anyone else.

The door opens behind them. At the same time that they both turn, Killian’s hand slips from behind her back before their French teacher crooks a finger at Emma and says, “Come on.”

And Emma, having forgotten all about the stupid song, can only remember what they worked on when she has the conversation with her teacher. The words don’t exactly flow, she doesn’t exactly sound good, but she understands her teacher and her teacher understands her and it’s probably the best test she’s had all year.

(That study date was good for more than _one_ something.)

Killian goes in after her, and she waits the five minutes it takes for him to finish. He lifts his fingers in a thumbs up when he exits the room and treads back over to where she’s leaning against the wall.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

Drumming his hands on the wall beside her, with the same post-test energy Emma feels rattling in her own bones, he says, “Wonderful - or as close to wonderful as I’m ever going to get. You?”

“The same, I think.”

They both laugh at the same time, a relieved sound more like a happy sigh than actual laughter.

“I have some time before practice. Want to get a snack?” he asks.

Emma swallows, laughter scaling back to a choked silence. His earnestness fades with her smile, but he rallies, which is more than Emma can say for the way her tongue presses to the top of her mouth and doesn’t want to leave.

“I'll grab you an oatmeal cookie. See you in a bit.”

Emma’s knees won’t bend to follow either and she feels so stupid, standing in the hall and watching him walk away. It was just a damn snack.

Her phone buzzes.

**1:18: don't feel bad. I can smell the lunchroom from here and it doesn't smell good at all. I think Brenda's burned the meatloaf again.**

Emma sniffs at the air and rattles off a reply of, “we don’t serve meatloaf here.”

**1:19: exactly**

Covering her laughter with a cough, she turns to watch the students still practicing their phrases until one by one they all finish and she’s left all alone in the hall, waiting. It isn’t nerve-racking, but Emma taps at her hand until her fingers find the arrow bracelet around her wrist, and she wraps her fingers around that, tight enough that it hurts when suddenly Killian appears and she pulls away.

“Thanks for waiting,” he says.

Killian hands her the cookie, a fresh one that he must have waited for by the kitchen because there’s a scent clinging to him, and he’s right, it smells like burnt meatloaf. She wrinkles her nose. He’s going to point it out, already reaching out to touch, hand scant inches from her face when Emma straightens her expression.

“You should go to practice. I have to meet my mom,” Emma says.

It’s such an obvious lie, and she knows he knows it, is going to call her out on it -

“Tell Principal Blanchard that I say ‘Hi,’” Killian says.

For a moment, he looks like he might lean in and then he steps back, giving her space to walk away, but her knees won’t bend. They put up a hell of a fight that she’s losing badly, especially when he looks at her with piqued interest.

“What?” he asks.

“Are you going to tell me another story? I mean -”

She doesn’t know what the hell she means, taking herself by surprise with her request.

“Walk with me and I’ll tell you one right now,” he says. A smirk spreads across his face and his eyebrows do that lifting thing that she knows he is only partially aware of and has less control over than he does over the hand he wraps around hers. “Or, we could wait until later tonight. I’m liking the latter option, but it’s up to -”

“I’ll call you later,” Emma says quickly. “I have to go see my mom.”

And would you look at that? Her knees give in, her legs move and she’s pulling out of his grasp and hurrying down the hall.

-

The call that she’s supposed to make never happens.

What does happen is this:

Emma actually does go to meet her mother, to keep up appearances and all, at first, and then, when she’s seated in the comfy chair across from her mother’s desk, legs curled up beneath her, it’s because she really _does_ have to talk to her. About Killian. Who’d’ve thought?

“You want to go college visiting with him?” her mother asks, voice neutral.

Truly neutral. This is her Principal voice, fair and understanding, set to consider all options and voices before she comes to a decision.

“He has the same colleges on his list, he knows more about them than me so he knows the questions to ask, and he can drive, too,” Emma says.

“I see where you’re coming from. Only,” she breathes and suddenly, she’s Emma’s mother, not Principal Blanchard. “Only, I didn’t think you liked him, Emma.”

“Why does everyone say that? I’ve never _not_ liked him. We just weren’t friends. I’m not friends with more than half the grade. Why does everyone pick him out in particular?”

She sounds so defensive that it’s embarrassing to her own ears, but at least she knows her mother won’t judge.

“I know Ruby doesn’t like him,” her mother finally points out.

Emma sighs heavily, and says, “I know there was that year where we coordinated our outfits and spoke in code, but that was third grade, Mom. Ruby and I can have differing opinions.”

“Alright,” her mother says lifting up her hands protectively.

Emma realizes she’s leaning forward in the chair, her hands gripping the edge of her mother’s desk. It’ll look too obvious if she pulls back even though her knees are screaming about how very much they don’t like this position. Her mother may be a terrible liar, but she can ferret out the truth just as well as anybody else - and if her mother figures out this truth, Emma will be going college visiting alone, or worse not at all. It is funny how, now that she’s down to 15 schools, the idea of _not_ visiting those schools makes her panic just as much as the idea of choosing them did.

What _isn’t_ funny is how much the idea of visiting them without Killian at her side makes her panic more.

“Emma, do you trust him?” her mother asks.

She watches Emma carefully. Instinctively, she knows what her mother is asking is really “Is he going to screw this up for you if I let him go?” but when Emma answers, “Yes,” it’s to another question entirely, a question she isn’t sure she’s prepared to face at all.

So, she doesn’t.

Emma goes home, she does her homework, has dinner, watches some TV, and when 2AM rolls around, this time, she’s dead to the world, sleeping right through to the next morning and the alerting ring of her alarm clock.

She wakes up rejuvenated. She wakes up refreshed.

She wakes up guilty for not calling, her heart hanging heavy in her chest.

(Emma wakes up Dr. Seuss, apparently, her rhyming just the _best._ )

\---

_got a secret, can you keep it, swear this one you’ll save. better lock it in your pocket, taking this one to the grave_

It’s Tink again. He’s not sure what the emergency is, he told her that he’d call her back when he got the chance, and it’s starting to give him as much of a headache as it’s giving Belle, who whines, “Who’s calling you again, Killian? Seriously, that ringtone is killing me.”

The library echoes as its door swings open and shut, and the clicks of Ruby’s heels echo louder on the floor followed by her voice testing the limits of his patience.

“I can take him out,” Ruby suggests.

Trying to keep himself from snapping when his head is pounding and he’s had zero sleep is hard, but he manages _just_ sarcastic when he calls back, “We know you can, Ruby. Don’t you ever grow tired of threatening my life?”

He moves some more books around and it stings - he must have a migraine - but not as much as the glee in Ruby’s voice. “Nope!” she shouts back.

“Ah, my fair warden, I need you in the back,” Killian calls.

He’s particularly useless today, but at least Belle doesn’t seem to mind too much. _Thankfully_ , Ruby minds for her.

“You need backup?” she asks, loud enough for him to hear.

“If you mean, ‘do I need backup to deal with the impending book fair’, then, yes, of course, your help is always welcome.”

Killian smiles. His fair warden, breaking up the fight in the prison yard before it even starts. He could hug her, but they’re not at that point. Maybe they won’t ever be, but when she comes to the back, she moves around him easily without the flinching that he still expects when he remembers just how badly he fucked up, trying to do the right thing in the worst of ways.

Sometimes, he feels no better than Gold.

“Come on, I have this, just take these books to the counter, please?”

As he’s picking them up, he hears Marian ask, “Did you want that help with Stats?” which means Ruby isn’t alone as he’d thought. Which means Emma’s here and - what can he say, he doesn’t really feel like seeing her right now when he could’ve used her voice last night and instead all he got were text messages from Victor, play by plays of his fuckups from the last couple of games, and his own nightmares nipping at his sanity.

“Sorry, I'm a bit out of it,” Emma says.

He can barely hear her, and he has to quash the hope that she merely forgot to call him down deep down beneath the reality that she’d been all stiffness when she’d said she’d call him. She’s an easy read. He shouldn’t have expected it, and he did, and it’s his own fault that he’s hurt but -

“Worried about the visits next week?” Marian asks. She follows it up with a, “You’re going alone, right?”

Killian makes his entrance then, determined not to look at her because the hope is bruising, trying to fight its way free, and if he looks in her eyes and sees the truth - well, his day doesn’t need that. He heads to the counter with the books Belle handed him but freezes when Emma speaks.

“No, I’m going with him,” she blurts out.

Killian turns around, looking at Marian’s tilted head instead of Emma.

“Wait…” Marian says quietly.

Her response is _too_ quiet. Killian waits for the bang and Ruby doesn’t disappoint with her already angered, “Wait what?”

“We’re applying to the same schools. It only makes sense,” Emma says.

 _It’s only because it makes sense -_ not because he’d sat beside her on his bedroom floor and helped her through the process, not because of the feelings she confessed to his bedroom walls, not because of anything that _matters_ , but because _it only makes sense._

Killian turns back towards the counter and Ruby may reply with a sharp, “And? What if he fucks up your life, too?” but Emma’s the one who says, “Belle trusts him.”

Emma’s the one that makes it hurt, but it’s good to know that she trusts in her friend’s judgement at least.

“Belle is -” Ruby starts.

“Right here. Ruby, stop,” Belle says.

She stomps out the backroom, all furious disappointment on high heels, and taps him on the shoulder to whisper, “Ruby’s in a bad mood. You should get out of here.”

Killian nods. He’s all too happy with that arrangement.

“Alright fine. I’m not sorry, though,” Ruby says.

Killian’s just turning around when Emma sighs and says, “Doesn’t take a genius to figure out that one.”

He doesn’t look at Emma as he passes by. Survival 101, never let your enemy see your weakness, and especially don’t let Emma see it.

“My mom wants to call your guardian to go over details. Can you text me a time she’ll be free?” Emma says.

“Will do,” he musters up the reply, still not looking at her.

Out of the corner of his eye though, he sees Emma’s hair whip over her shoulder with the speed that she turns away.

“I’m off, Belle. Sorry, I have a meeting with Archie to get to,” Killian announces.

Emma will know just as well as Belle that he’s lying but his phone is vibrating in his pocket again, and he has a migraine to attend to and no energy to suffer any more of Ruby’s comments - or Emma’s blankness.

“It’s alright,” Belle says. “See you Tuesday.”

“Yeah, great,” Killian says and makes his escape.

\---

Some things can’t be fixed. There are moments where everything falls apart into such infinitesimally tiny pieces that it’s just impossible to pick up again.

And then there are moments where your best friend walks in with you to your English class and pulls aside her mortal enemy to say, “I’m sorry. I was an asshole.”

Killian leers at Ruby, and maybe Ruby doesn’t recognize the look as anything but that, but Emma does. She sees the way his fingers twitch with uncertainty and he swallows around his nervousness so he can come at Ruby all bravado when he says, “I expected nothing less, darling.”

Emma moves past them both, but takes a seat within hearing shot of them so she can intervene if necessary. Like she should’ve done before but she was too busy struggling with her own stupidly messy emotions - it’s no excuse, she knows, but Ruby’s her own person, and Emma’s hers, and they’re both flawed creatures, colliding in unfortunate ways.

But -

But Emma’s the one that should’ve said, “He helped me pick the schools when I couldn’t even think.” Emma’s the one that should’ve said, “I trust him.” Emma’s the one who should’ve called.

And Emma should say sorry, too. Just as soon as she finds the words.

“Look, Killian, I don’t like you - but I know when I’m taking my own insecurities out on other people and I know when to apologize. Unlike you, I don’t take two years to do so,” Ruby snipes.

“Apology accepted. Insult accepted, too, but it’s not like I have any choice in the matter,” Killian says.

He glances over at Emma, brief enough that she only sees the look because she’s staring and Ruby doesn’t see it because she’s running her fingers through her hair. It’s the first time he’s looked at her all day.

Hope flutters in her chest, something to echo the look in his eyes.

“That’s all I wanted to say. For now,” Ruby says.

“That’s foreboding,” Killian says drily, lifting both eyebrows, head drawn back in surprise.

“I don’t have time to detail what you can and cannot do during your trip today, but Emma, Belle, Marian, Tink and I are going to be at the diner on Sunday for dinner so you should join us then.”

Emma looks away, but not before Ruby catches her gaze and says, “Sorry to spoil our dinner, but he has to know the rules. I have a whole list to go through.”

Emma chokes. Killian stares blankly ahead.

“See you later, Emma. We have to plan for next Thursday anyway.”

Next Thursday.

Her birthday sneaks up on her in the way it does every year, where she forgets about it until the subtle hints become anvils dropped upon her head.

This one is particularly painful because Killian says, “Am I invited to this, too?”

Ruby shoots him one of her deadliest glares, the one that makes Emma want to duck her head in shame and so Ruby doesn’t see the flash of murder in her expression.

“We can’t have you ruining Emma’s birthday,” Ruby says.

So much for apologies.

A painful lurching happens in Emma’s gut, the kind that leaves her swaying in her seat because she wouldn’t mind having him ruin her birthday. In fact...to be as honest as possible when a lie would be so much easier to deal with - _honestly_ , he’d only make it better.

These words get caught in her throat, too. Emma kind of wants to throw something just to see if she’s capable of making a sound.

“Alright. I’m grateful for the apology, so happy to know that you’re thinking of me, _really,_ but our teacher should be here soon,” he says.

Ruby shifts on her feet and turns to Emma while Killian backs away towards his usual seat. With a sigh, Ruby says, “I’m sorry, too. I just don’t want him to -”

“I trust him,” Emma says.

Well, she _can_ speak. Perhaps, she’s just a late bloomer.

A chair scrapes. Emma’s head shoots up and Killian’s staring at her, one hand pressed to the back of his neck, the other wrapped around the back of his chair so he can keep watching her when she looks back at Ruby. It’s a familiar burning on her skin, like fingers trailing over her skin, a kiss pressed to her forehead, to her cheek, to her neck.

“Someone needs to have some sense around here,” Ruby says.

Emma glares.

“I’m joking. Fine, enjoy your class. I’ll see you Sunday unless you want to save me from my shift at the diner tomorrow?”

“Not a chance,” Emma says.

Ruby pouts all the way through her backwards walk through the doorway. Only when she turns around does Emma wave her goodbye. It takes a moment after she disappears for Emma to look back at Killian. Straightening herself out - she isn’t running away from this now, now that he’s finally looking at her and she can see his eyes are bloodshot and dimmed - she stammers, “I’m sorry I didn’t - I said I would,” Emma says.

French language aside, Killian is a surprisingly good translator because he gets it and he says, “You did, but it’s cool. I wasn’t…”

She gets him, too. He _was_ expecting the call.

“Did you get busy?” he asks.

 _Lie to me_.

“No,” Emma says.

“I see.”

_You didn’t want to talk to me._

“You don’t, but Killian -”

The class starts with a clap of her teacher’s hands, so Emma doesn't get the words out before his attention gets stolen.

Frustrated, Emma pulls out her phone and taps out a text, "Ruby was wrong. She tends to be that way when she's stressed."

**2:17: did you tell her to apologize**

"No. that was on her. like this is on me, I'm sorry for not calling you."

**2:20: it wasn't a date, it's fine**

Their teacher glances in their direction so Emma puts away her phone. She makes an effort to pay attention, but her mind is elsewhere. Well, technically, it's _still_ here, sitting right next to her in the opposite seat, currently jumping with every tap of his pen.

She pulls out her phone once more, just before he gets his things together - they must have a game, the only reason he'd be leaving class early on a Friday.

Fumbling over what to say, Emma stares at her phone screen. It’s only as he’s out the door that Emma manages to reply, “See you Sunday, right?”

**2:41: Saturday, 2pm at my house it is**

\---

He’s either going to die in this match or get someone else killed, but he’s too relieved to care when he reads Emma’s text.

**2:44: Saturday isn’t Sunday but...why not both?**

Killian grins.

He’s either going to die in this match, or get someone else killed.

Or both.

Both sounds fine with him.

\---

Class is over by the time her phone buzzes again, and then, it’s Marian, not Killian. Emma can honestly say she isn’t disappointed because Marian’s text is enough to make her actually excited for a Friday evening.

**2:55: late night snack at Granny’s?**

**2:56: that actually isn’t a request, sorry to say**

Typing back a, “hell yes,” Emma’s fingers teeter on the edge of dropping her phone when a text message comes through.

**2:57: Emma, your prescription is ready for refill at Doc’s Pharmacy. If you would like to schedule a refill, reply ‘R.’ If you would like to skip automatic refill, reply ‘S.’**

Emma’s never missed a prescription before and she definitely isn’t going to start now, not when - her face heats up. She hates that damn list.

-

“Emma, your birthday’s Thursday,” Marian points out.

Emma steals a French fry off her plate. “I know,” she says around the half eaten potato.

“What have you planned?”

“Uh, School, Netflix and food? I’m leaving the day after, I need sleep,” Emma says.

She throws back an onion ring. Granny’s onion rings are always better than her French fries, probably because she actually makes them and doesn’t buy them frozen. Either she needs to start making her own fries or find a better frozen brand because these things just aren’t cutting it.

“We should throw you a party,” Marian says.

Emma looks at her this time so Marian can read her clearly when she says, “Let me repeat myself - I’m _driving_ the day after, I _need_ sleep.”

“Oh, Killian will keep you awake, you'll be fine,” Marian says.

It’s like Ruby has a Killian alert because she skids to their side in time to say, “You’re right. If there’s anything he enjoys, it’s annoying you. You’ll probably want to kill him before the first hour is up.”

Emma shrugs, not defensive, just tired when she says, “Not really. He doesn’t annoy me.”

“Alright, fine, I guess this is a gentle reminder that I need to stop being a bitch because -”

Ruby’s face falls. Emma looks at her nails and sure enough, they’re bitten, not deep enough to bleed but close to it. Grabbing Ruby by the hand, she tugs her down into the booth beside her. Only when she’s stuffed a French fry in Ruby’s mouth does she let her speak.

“What if _I_ get in and Belle doesn’t because of him? That’s the only reason I’m so upset. Belle would be heartbroken, and then she’d hate me.”

It’s an explanation Emma considered, but she’s glad Ruby’s cleared that up. Taking her insecurities out on Killian…it sucks but Emma’s glad that Ruby’s being honest about it.

It means Emma can be a little honest herself.

“She wouldn’t hate you. Come on, it’s Belle, she’s forgiven Killian, you think that she’d hate you of all people? It’s not even on her records,” Emma says.

It means Emma can play a little dirty, too. Ruby’s too busy being honest to worry about other people being honest back, and besides, she’s due for some payback.

Turning into Ruby, she rolls her eyes, and says, “Besides, you really need to get over this or else I’m going to start thinking you’re harboring some secret lust for him. You know the classic, ‘I hate him because I like him.’”

Ruby goes her namesake, pale and back to a normal angry pink. She slams her hands down on the table and stands up. With her hands on her hips, she announces, “You know what, I’ve decided that he’s forgiven, and we’re going to be best friends now. There’s no secret lust between friends.”

A million different movies, shows, books, _hell,_ real life relationships would beg to disagree, but Marian’s smart enough to settle on the one that Ruby knows best.

“What about you and Belle?” she asks.

She shares a smile with Emma, and to make their triumph more obvious, they high-five each other across their plates of food.

“That wasn’t secret,” Ruby argues.

Which is partially true. Ruby was so obvious it was painful to watch. She and Marian had taken bets on how long it would take Belle to notice, which was even more painful in the end when Emma had to shell out $50 of her allowance to cover her loss.

But it’s no more painful than Emma’s hesitant, “Are you serious, though? About forgiving him?”

Ruby struggles a smile. “If you want me to.”

“We _all_ want you to,” Emma amends. “This feud gives me a headache.”

Among other aches. The kind that don’t settle on her, but bruise when she’s thinking too much about secrets and those who keep it and that damn song has been playing in her head ever since Tink mentioned it. Ever since that night at Belle’s, the secrets feel more tangled than ever.

Emma’s birthday is coming up.

She kind of wants to scream.

“From Sunday on, all is forgiven...as long as he’s on his best behavior,” Ruby says.

Ruby’s smile is small, but Emma can see teeth. She already has plans and Emma doesn’t like any of the ones she sees in the dimples of Ruby’s cheeks.

For backup, Emma looks to Marian who has a hand over her face, covering her own distrustful expression.

“I feel like I should issue him a warning that you’re going to be weird. You’re going to make this weird,” Marian says.

“No weirder than Emma inviting him on her trip,” Ruby says, pointing an accusing finger at Emma. “I still don’t get it.”

“What’s not to get?” Marian asks.

That’s Emma’s question, too. Her explanation was _good_. Not good in the sense that it made her feel good, but it was an explanation.

Ruby snaps her fingers at Emma. “I don’t get that you aren’t freaking out about driving through states with a guy you barely know.”

Emma knows a lot more than Ruby would want to know, but Ruby’s right. She doesn’t know enough. Emma may know how his eyes darken when he wants to kiss her, but - she wants more than that.

She blinks.

She needs more than that, but for now she isn’t going to think of that, not when Ruby’s so curious.

“No better way to get to know someone than to be stuck in a car with them for hours,” Emma says snidely.

“That trip to New York was great. You know it.”

Ruby nods as if her positivity is going to make Emma change her mind about how awful it was to be stuck in a car with her while she played “I’m Too Sexy” on repeat.

“I know that it’s never happening again,” Emma says.

“What trip to New York?” Marian asks.

“Oh you missed out,” Ruby says at the same time that Emma reaches over and pats Marian’s hand, saying, “You’ve made a mistake.”

Marian sighs and looks over at Ruby. “Go ahead and tell me.”

-

Two hours, an ungodly amount of onion rings, and a tearful serenade of “I’m Too Sexy” later, Emma drums her fingers against the door handle of Marian’s car while stopped at the longest light in town.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Emma startles enough to say, “I need some advice.”

“Is it about the boy?”

Where Marian gets off talking like her mother is beyond Emma. Where Marian gets off reading Emma like her mother is beyond Emma.

Where Emma gets off acting like she’s surprised is beyond her, too.

“No, it’s not about the boy,” Emma lies.

Perfecting the lie, she says, “It’s actually about colleges.”

“Oh,” Marian says. “That’s better than a boy. I was worried I was going to have to pretend I know what I’m talking about.”

“And I would’ve had to pretend that there is a boy,” Emma says.

“Of course there’s a boy but that’s beside the point. What about colleges?”

Marian turns to face Emma, which she can when they probably have another 2 minutes stuck at this light. She smiles – and Emma gets that her secret is safe with Marian, but she’s already started with “colleges,” she might as well see how this plays out.

She ruminates on how exactly to phrase it, finally deciding to say, “I’m not sure how to tell my parents that I’m nervous about what they’ll think of my school choices. I’m not even sure I know what those choices are right now. I like them but – I’m just unsure.”

Translation: uh, how the hell do I tell Ruby about Killian? Also _Killian._

“Well, Emma, the truth is always easier than the lie. If you’re feeling so nervous about your school choices, it’s better to talk it out with your parents. They love you. They’ll understand. But if you’re not ready to do that, don’t force it out into the open. Just, um, avoid it?”

“Push my problems aside. Good advice,” Emma says.

“I know. I’m wiser than my years,” Marian says.

The light turns green, so Emma takes it as a sign.

Translation: Wait and see.

**\---**

He’s just dropping his bag down to the floor when his phone starts to ring and goddamnit, he’s going to kill Tink for this stupid ringtone, but –

It isn’t Tink.

“Hello,” he says, happier than she can probably hear from the exhaustion wrecking his vocal chords. “Before you say anything, I want you to know that we won the match. Congratulate me.”

Monotone, she says, “Congratulations.”

“You can sound more excited,” Killian insists.

“I can.”

This is a battle he isn’t going to win, so he moves on, “Alright so, I’m actually going to need you to be at my house at 1:30 tomorrow,” Killian says.

Her words are too muffled for him to understand until she says it again, this time without the pillow she undoubtedly had in her mouth. “Why?”

“It’s important,” he says.

Also known as: he’d checked the time.

“But also a secret,” she says. Rougher, annoyed, she says, “Because ‘It’s important’ sure as hell isn’t telling me anything.”

She sounds more awake than he feels so he doesn’t feel bad about giving her the two word answer of, “I know.”

“Well, that’s just as helpful. What if I had something to do?” Emma asks.

“Like what?”

She isn’t crossing her arms over her chest, but she must want to because her voice goes out for a moment before it comes back with a huffed, “I have a life, you know. It consists of homework, Granny’s and volunteering, but it is a life.” She pauses, and when she speaks again, it’s with an eagerness that he immediately suspects to be her trying to get him to reveal himself. “Speaking of, it’ll have to be 1:45 because I’m volunteering tomorrow at the Shelter and I need a shower after that.”

“You don't like the smell of animals?” he asks.

“I don’t hate the smell of animals, but I definitely hate smelling like them,” Emma says, still too bright to dispel his suspicions.

“Same here,” he agrees. “Which speaking of, I need a shower. So 1:45, I can work with that, though-"

“I’m liking this schedule that I have to adhere to without knowing what it’s about,” Emma says.

The eagerness is gone from her voice, replaced with a bit of a bite that is just enough to have him laughing into the phone, and congratulating himself on being right.

“You can cajole and threaten all you want, Emma, but I’m not telling you.”

“But wait! I haven't even started.”

He whines. “I can smell myself, Emma. That’s not a good sign. Let me go.”

She recognizes a battle she can’t win just as easily as he does, and he suspects she doesn’t want to win anyway when she says, “Fine, fine. Go to bed.”

She sniffs and then does it again.

“I will sleep well knowing what you don’t,” he teases. Softer, he says, “Thanks for calling, by the way.”

“It’s…”

 _Nothing_?

“I wanted to,” she finishes.

He drops down to the floor, his legs too tired to hold him up any longer. “Goodnight, little beast,” he says, toeing off one shoe and then the other while she snorts into his ear.

“The _literal_  pet names need to stop,” Emma says. “I’m not a rabbit. You’re the one with the ears for it, anyway. Like a Keebler elf.”

Killian laughs too long because Emma’s quiet is only broken by her huffed breaths, so he ceases his laughter to say, “Goodnight. Again.”

“Alright, fine. Goodnight,” Emma snaps, but she doesn’t hang up the phone, not until he blows a kiss into it, a loud popping noise that makes her groan and kill the connection.

\---

She’s at his house at 1:39, actually, having been rescued early - rescued being the operative word when she ended up taking a mud bath because Roger, her favorite old dog, who can barely be bothered to eat his food on a good day, decided that he’d take his one shot at freedom and run around in the rainy forest for a bit.

Emma still thinks she smells a bit like dying pine, but it can’t be helped. She’s already scrubbed herself pink; she isn’t getting any cleaner.

Besides, and she’ll admit, maybe, that even though she’s brought a bag of homework with her, even though she has no idea what they're doing (besides her homework, of course) – despite this, she’s excited.

When she knocks on his door though, she freezes, her excitement disappearing into the rain falling around her.

“Hello,” she says to the woman glaring down her nose at her.

Nurse Ratched, her least favorite hospital nurse – Emma forgot she was Killian’s guardian. Not that Emma knows many other nurses, but at least they all look friendly rather than adopting Ratched’s vaguely murderous disposition.

“Killian said you were coming. Emma, right?”

She steps aside with a wave of her hand, but is slow moving like she can’t even be bothered to let Emma in out of the rain. Emma shakes her umbrella closed and steps inside. She looks towards the stairs when she hears a creak to see Killian smiling down at her.

“Ratched, Emma and I will be upstairs,” he says.

Emma raises an eyebrow at the loss of his usual politeness and then raises it higher when she realizes that they’re going to be in his room with Ratched home.

“Door open,” is all Ratched says before disappearing into another room just off the front hallway.

Killian rolls his eyes in her direction, and then takes the stairs two at a time down to her.

“Leave your raincoat down here,” he says, pressing his hands to her shoulders despite the rain clinging to her. “It’ll dry faster. Shoes, too.”

Emma kicks off her shoes, takes off her coat and hands it to him. Like a proper gentlemen, he hangs it up for her and donates a pair of pink flip flops that _must_ belong to him (because she can’t imagine Ratched wears them) to walk up the stairs in. He even offers to carry her backpack, but she grabs it before he can pick it up.

As they’re climbing the stairs, Emma finally asks, “So, what’s this big reason I had to be here now?”

“Belle let slip a little secret,” Killian says, moving past her to push into his room.

“What secret?”

Killian pauses at the open door, lifting an eyebrow. “Relax. She didn’t reveal anything too dark and dirty, just that you haven’t seen Lord of the Rings.”

The amount of times Belle has tried to get her to watch it…What a fucking sneak attack. Not that Belle knows it’s happening, but – Emma breathes deep – this is why no one ever likes the Warden.

Narrowing her eyes, she says, “Is that why you were laughing so hard last night? You and your stupid elf ears, you’d fit right into Middle Earth.”

She watches with interest as his stupid elf ears turn red, and walks up to him to poke at his chest, “Is that an elf trait?”

“Humans are the cruelest,” he says to the ceiling with a teeny, despairing shake of his head. She pokes at him again and he diverts his gaze back to her to say, “You’ll like it, I promise. And if you don’t, we can do all that crap you have in your backpack.”

“It’s not crap. Well, it is, but it is crap that I’ll be graded on, so it’s the special kind of crap,” Emma says.

The special kind of crap that she drops right down at the foot of his desk, making his lamp shake at the thud. She winces.

“Did you bring _all_ your textbooks?”

“Just Chem and Stats,” Emma says.

He picks up her bag to check, winces and drops it with another heavy thud. A pen rolls off his desk and hits the floor.

“You’ll have to get that. I think I pulled something,” Killian says.

Emma bends to pick it up, says, “It’s not that heavy,” but he actually looks pained when she stands up again so she says, “I’ll take the desk chair, then.”

“Emma,” he lilts her name, asking, “Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

Quiet enough that know eavesdroppers would here, she says, “That was _before_ your guardian was home. I’ll take the desk chair, and you take your bed.”

He makes a noise, but there’s no use in arguing with her. Emma drops into the desk chair, rolling it and dragging her backpack over the carpet to where he’s set up his TV and the laptop.

“You can still join me on the bed, you know. Think of it as killing two birds with one stone,” Killian says.

“How’s that?”

“Well, you get to watch a good movie _and_ knock an item off your list.”

He smirks at her, his eyes lighting up.

She smirks right back.

“Nice try.”

He shrugs. “I had to. Alright, you ready?”

Emma sighs. “As I’ll ever be for _this_.”

-

She likes it within the first ten minutes, but her back starts to hurt so Emma decides to at least get her homework out of the way before she’s physically incapable of it.

Killian’s good about this movie watching thing. Where Ruby always makes comments, and Belle and Marian always ask questions, he’s quiet like her – besides the looks, of course.

The looks speak volumes.

 _Join me, join me, join me_ , they whisper, shout, beg with a gaze that is hungry and wanting and too much for Emma, so she ducks her head into Chem and pretends she can’t see.

“You’re going to miss out if you do that,” Killian says. “But I’m not pausing. I allotted a proper amount of time for this.”

“What if I had to take a bathroom break? What if I want food?” Emma says.

“I already bought lunch, which is scheduled to arrive…now,” Killian says. The doorbell rings. He shakes his head at her and before she says it, he says, “Okay, so maybe I am pausing.”

He pads across the floor and out the room, so Emma takes the opportunity to get up, stretch her legs and google the name of all of the Lord of the Rings troupe so she remembers. It’s a lot of dudes so far and calling them Dumbledore-lite, Hobbit 1, 2, and so on isn’t going to work out for her in the long run.

Killian returns just as she _thinks_ she has them all down, and she turns to him with a triumphant grin only to have it fall right off her face.

“Killian, did you seriously get Mama’s delivered?” Emma says.

She looks at the bag. There’s no telling what kind of horror is hidden in its depths. At least with Chem and Stats, the horror stays on the page and not in her stomach.

He makes a ‘tsking’ noise, shaking his empty hand at her. “I’ve discovered something, Emma. They actually _can_ make good food when they’re motivated properly.”

“Motivated properly? How do you motivate them properly?”

Killian smiles. “That’s my secret.”

“Okay, secret keeper, what are you going to poison me with today?”

He opens the bag – and it actually smells good. She smells the donut first, and then the burgers hit her, and she’s hungry. Chasing after Roger must’ve weakened her more than she thought because even though she had a massive breakfast, now that she’s smelling it, she’s starving.

“Eat and watch?” Killian asks.

She nods.

He gathers some plates from his desk drawer which Emma doesn’t even bother to ask about; she knows that kind of laziness, too, and hands her the burger, her donut, and one of his water bottles.

It’s a tough decision – test out the burger and risk ruining her donut? Or get herself too hyped up on a donut to eat her burger?

Killian jolts her out of her indecision when he practically falls to his bed, making it creak on its springs, and says, “Eat the burger. Trust me. You said you did.”

“That’s a low blow,” Emma says.

It is the lowest of blows, especially when his cheeks dimple and he plays with the hair at the back of his neck, obviously both happy and embarrassed about it. She looks away. Unwrapping the burger, she takes one bite, chewing slowly.

And then she takes another larger than the last, and another. She’s halfway done by the time she feels ready to admit defeat and meet his eyes. With a thumbs up, he asks, “Good choice or good choice?”

“What the hell is your secret?” Emma demands.

He runs his fingers through his hair, and around his last mouthful of burger says, “Complimenting the chef.”

“You mean lying?”

Before this Emma wouldn’t have complimented the chef on anything but their donuts, and she’d do it under the suspicion that whoever’s “actually” making them didn’t work there at all.

“Is this lying?” Killian says, pointing at her as she lifts her burger to her mouth.

She has to give it to him. He’s right.

-

He’s right about the other thing, too.

She _does_ miss out when she takes 20 minutes of the movie to do her homework, and she actually wants to go back, find out what happened when she was too busy throwing chem questions at him to pay attention, but he said before that he wasn’t pausing.

So, Emma does what she swore she wouldn’t do and joins him on the bed, crawling across the rumpled sheets to the space he left open for her.

He shuffles over immediately, and there’s no use stopping now, she rolls in closer until they’re practically nose to nose so she can look into his eyes, flutter her lashes and say, “Rewind please.”

“This isn’t playing fair,” Killian moans.

“You started it,” Emma says.

“You’re going to have to move over so I can get to the laptop,” Killian says. He shoots her a smile as he sits up. “But of course you’re welcome to move back in when I lay down.”

‘You’re welcome to,’ translates to Emma keeping a decent amount of space between them up until the point that Gandalf dies – and when she next notices the space between them, there’s none at all. He drapes his arm across her stomach and she realizes with slight horror that her skirt is bunching up beneath her. She twists just a bit to pull it down, and he makes a noise as she brushes against him.

“Sorry,” she says.

He doesn’t respond to that, so Emma rolls away a bit to give him some space to get himself together. It isn’t long before she creeps back into his space, though, and she’s watching the movie beneath his arm again, although this time he drapes it over her head, gently pulling at her hair every time she shifts.

It’s not an uncomfortable feeling so she doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t say much of anything at all as the next movie rolls on right after the end of the first, just tries to keep her eyes open.

Emma fails.

-

There’s a gentle tugging on her sleeve and Emma pulls backwards, clinging to the vestiges of her sleep. The tugging becomes rougher and then cold fingers press to her neck and Emma yelps, opening her eyes.

“Oh,” she says.

At first all she sees is blue and then his entire face swims into focus.

“Honestly, Swan, you come over, make me do your homework with you while we should be watching an epic tale of brave hobbits, and then you fall asleep on me. You’re terrible.”

His voice is teasing but Emma can’t appreciate that right now when his fingers are running through her hair, and he’s moving in closer and she expects Ratched to show up at any minute, to see him looking at Emma like this - but instead there are no footsteps creaking across the floor, and Killian’s kissing the bridge of her nose and whispering, “You snore.”

“Get over it,” Emma says.

“I have to say, Two Towers does sound better with your musical accompaniment.”

She rolls her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost 6? I thought I should wake you so you can get home before it gets too dark. Ratched says she’ll give you a ride if you want, but -”

“But?” Emma prompts.

“Her car makes noises like it’ll give at any moment and I’d like you to make it home alive. So, I’ll walk you,” he says.

“I can walk myself…”

His expression sours and he lifts up so he’s seated beside her rather than laying down next to her.

She can walk herself, _but_ walking alone in the rain just seems so depressing, especially after watching Gandalf and Boromir die.

“Are you going to be my ranger and lead me home?” Emma teases.

He looks down at her, surprise lighting his features, followed by a slow smirk that immediately turns accusing.

Watching all those expressions flit across his face is better than the movie, if she’s being honest. Frodo’s eyes don’t compare.

“Wait. You slept through Aragorn’s scenes. Were you just using that as an excuse to cuddle, Swan? Because that’s just wrong. You don’t need an excuse.”

“I wasn’t using it an excuse. My eyes were just tired,” Emma says.

They were and she wasn’t. Really, but now that his eyes are twinkling, she just feels embarrassed that she’d pressed so close to his side, that she kept kicking her heel against his shins, that when her fingers had started to get cold, she’d clutched at his shirt.

“I imagine they would be. Your homework is a nightmare. I was looking it over while you were sleep. I forgot how bad chem is.”

He shakes his head as if to clear out the unwanted memories.

“You must have blocked it out,” Emma says. “Wait, why were you looking over my homework?”

Killian’s response is light, dismissive, when he says, “Wanted to make sure you didn’t end up writing the hobbits names down instead of your answer.”

“Did I?” Emma asks.

“You’re hobbit free.”

The pause is too sharp. There’s a ‘but’ on the tip of his tongue.

“Who was it? Gandalf? Legolas?” she says.

“Close,” he says.

“Orlando Bloom?”

“Far.”

“Tell me,” Emma says, clutching at his shirt.

His expression exaggerates, his grin rueful. “I don’t know how to feel about you associating me with the Krebs cycle. Flattered? Confused?”

Emma feels pretty rueful, too.

“Did you erase it?” she asks.

“Yeah, you’re good.”

“Thanks.”

The silence becomes unbearably awkward so Emma deals with that in the only way she knows how, drawing her hand across his arm and tugging him back down to her. Killian searches her gaze and the light goes off, his eyes go dark, and licks at his lips.

“What do you want?” he asks. “Because Ratched’s still here, so we have to be quiet.”

“I don’t know. Just kiss me?”

He moves in, but just as quickly, he pulls away.

“Oh, fuck it, I’m closing the door. But let me go check on her first,” he says.

She lets him go and tries to think of what she wants but draws a blank until he drums his fingers on the door and says, “Emma, Ratched says that she’ll give you a ride in an hour if that’s what you want.”

“That’s fine,” Emma says, looking at his fingers, the wheels not turning, but zooming in a downward course (a Highway to Hell, if you will). “You should wash your hands, you know. They smell like burger grease.”

“What? I already-”

He curses when he gets it.

“Okay, be right back.”

Killian’s fast in the bathroom, quiet in closing the door, and slow in returning to her side. He makes a show of turning up the volume on his TV and restarting Two Towers, so when he finally gets within reaching distance, Emma practically has to pull him down to her to get him to stop wasting time.

“We have an hour,” he explains.

“I want to be set to go in an hour, not a mess,” she says.

She swallows whatever argument he’s about to voice by grabbing him by the back of his neck and kissing him. It’s awkward, he laughs and adjusts the angle so she can actually kiss him and not his chin.

It’s not so awkward when his tongue enters the equation, but it never is, and she’s already hot and wanting. Blame it on the teenage hormones.

Emma drags his hand to her belly and he gets the hint, crushing her skirt in his fist and tugging it up so he can get at her hips. His fingers tease over the skin, and Emma shudders hard enough to break the kiss.

“Lay on your back,” Killian murmurs.

She twists, moving onto her back. Turning her head to look at him, she follows him with her eyes as he slowly climbs atop her, careful not to hit her as he moves.

“You have to keep your clothes on this time, right?” he asks. She nods her confirmation and he smirks. “I can work with that.”

He lifts her legs up, bends them at the knees, and fits himself between them, a casual touch to the move that’s belied by the way he kisses her knee and says, “I could stay here forever.”

“That’s great, but we only have like 20 minutes now and if you want to, too…”

“Emma, what are you saying?” Killian asks.

It makes sense that he’d need a translator for that, but she still wants to poke at his cheeks and tease him for how slow he is when he’s between her legs.

(There must be some kind of correlation there.)

“That I’ll skip to number 8 if you want?” she clarifies.

The sound he makes is guttural, and it hits her hard. Her fingers twitch to grab him, but she resists.

“That sounds nice, but I have a much better idea. But I’ll give you what you want first.”

His fingers start walking a gentle path up her inner thigh. Emma spreads wider, so far from embarrassed when it makes him dip his head to kiss her knee again while he takes his hand farther up, skirting his fingers over the line of her underwear.

Killian takes his slow time there, and even with her head pretty much lost to the sensation, she’s still partially aware of the time.

“Killian, stop playing with me,” she says quietly.

His response is muffled, which is fine with Emma because it’s muffled by the kisses he presses from her knee down her thigh, moving farther into her space, so close to where she wants him most – or rather, needs him most, because she’s fine with him anywhere to be honest, happy with the neck kisses, with his hands touching her everywhere they can reach, but right now she needs him right –

Emma buries her face in his pillow as his knuckle circles her clit through her underwear and a skirt may not have been such a great idea when it was cold and rainy and her legs were shaking with every step, but it is now that she can do _this_ and not have to take a damn thing off.

When Killian pulls away, Emma makes the tiniest of moans, too aware of being found out to do more than stifle the next cry with her fist, when he pushes her underwear to the side with one hand and presses his knuckle to her now bared clit.

“Primed for me, already?” he asks.

The answer is staring him right in the face, she can’t imagine why he needs to ask, can’t imagine why he’s only doing those damn gentle circles instead of fucking her on his fingers the way she wants.

That is, Emma can’t imagine until he dips his tongue inside of her, gently pressing at her center. Emma bites down on her fist and draws the other hand up to his shoulder, holding tight while he fucks her open with his tongue.

She’s sweating and she can barely breathe around her hand, but that doesn’t really matter much in the grand scheme of things, when his tongue laves a hot, slick trail up to her clit and his fingers slide downwards, through her folds, one finger slipping in easily because she’s so needy from just that –

The second finger doesn’t go in as easily, but he’s gentle with it, so much so that she wants to cry when he finally fits it knuckle deep and just rests there, his tongue stroking her clit while she adjusts.

The stretch is so much more than before. One finger is easy, two is just – _two_ is Killian gently coaxing her open with each tentative pump of his fingers, waiting for her to relax around him before he pushes back in. _Two_ is Emma digging her nails into his shoulder, squeezing her thighs together each time he sucks her clit into her mouth, trapping him in the wet space between her legs.

 _Two_ is her biting her tongue to keep from embarrassing herself – and getting them in trouble, oh god, the trouble they’ll get in if Ratched decides to climb the stairs and check on them.

The sounds of Killian stroking in and out of her echo in her ears, wet and smooth now that she’s relaxed enough that he can fuck her – she’s so full, but she starts bucking her hips to meet the thrust of his fingers, needing more, wanting something _more._ She’s so close that she can taste it at the back of her throat, the heat burning there, burning up her ability to speak.

Which is good, really good when anything Emma could say right now would get her in the worst kind of trouble.

He can still speak though, and when he lifts his head to say, “You taste so sweet,” emphasizing the statement by diving back in, licking and sucking and _still_ fucking her, not just fucking her, but stroking at her insides, finding spots that make her close her eyes tight, make her draw her fist away from her mouth, finally, _finally_ so she can grip at the sheets and breathe around the orgasm tearing flames up her spine.

Killian stops moving his fingers but it’s enough just to have him there, enough to make the aftershocks spike more than usual, strong enough that even when she tries to open her eyes, to look down at him, she can’t even manage that.

“About my idea,” Killian says, pulling his fingers out ever so slowly. Emma moans at the loss, the first sound she’s made since he started touching her, but thankfully a horn rings out in the movie and drowns out the heated sound.

“I think I’ll save it for another time,” he says.

He doesn’t sound disappointed, but she opens her eyes just to make sure.

“You don’t want me to…?” Emma asks.

He laughs and shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “I want you to do a lot, but we should open the door before Ratched gets suspicious and comes looking. I don’t want her to find you like this.”

She moans, this time not heated, but incredibly annoyed.

“You’re a mess, Emma Swan,” he says.

Killian climbs out from between her legs, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand, which doesn’t do anything but make her snap and say, “And you just had your face in my -”

“Let’s not argue semantics,” he says.

He shuffles off the bed at a slow enough pace that Emma’s right by his side, skirt pulled down and underwear sort of fixed when he cautiously opens the door.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Emma says when his confused gaze meets her.

Understanding makes his cheeks pink. She resists kissing him, but only by a fraction, her need to clean up overruling even that most basic of needs. Emma steps quickly and quietly, desperate to be huddled in the bathroom before Ratched calls for her, and it’s with utter relief that she closes the door behind her.

Her legs shake as she rests herself on the toilet, and god, it’s amazing that she even managed to walk here with the way the tremors take her, faint, but still burning up her spine every time she shifts and feels the absence of his fingers.

She didn’t come here for this, she tells herself, and it’s true. She didn’t. She came here…

Because Killian asked.

Because she wanted to.

Because it wasn’t a date and she could deal with that.

And it still isn’t a date, but it sure as hell feels like one when he knocks on the door and says, “If you don’t hurry up, we won’t get to talk before you go,” sounding as equally amused as he is sincere. It’s as close to a real date as they’ve ever gotten.

And Emma is one-hundred percent certain that she has no idea what to feel about that – or whether she even wants to feel anything about that.

(If you’re not ready to do that, don’t force it out into the open, right? Avoid it?

 _Wait and see_ , she tells herself. _Wait and see_.)


	7. (interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this as part 1 of Ch.7 as it was getting far too long. Also, thank you to each and everyone who read, kudosed, or commented. Your appreciation seriously makes my day!

He isn’t distrustful of Tink’s offer to give him a ride at first, but the steady blare of her horn disabuses him of the notion that he should be anything but wary when he races down the stairs, out his front door, and ends up having to bang on the hood of her Jeep to get her to stop.

She smiles at him through the windshield as he stomps over to the passenger side. Throwing open the door, he says, “Why in the bloody hell are you trying to get yourself banned from my house?”

“If I haven’t been banned at this point, I don’t think it’s going to happen,” Tink replies.

“I wasn’t talking about Ratched banning you,” Killian says.

He leans back in the seat, getting himself as comfortable as possible in the too sweet smelling car. Once he is, Tink pulls out and takes her car down the road, driving slowly to Granny’s.

“I know you weren't,” Tink says with an excited wiggle of her brows. “But anyway, what was taking you so long?”

“Two minutes. I was downstairs in two minutes, Tink,” Killian says even though he’s sure it was less than that. He’d had his window open, so he’d nearly fallen off his bed at the first beep of her horn. Everything echoes when you live so close to the water, and his ears are still ringing.

“No. That’s not what I meant,” Tink says. Her easy smile should be a warning, and it is, so he feels fairly prepared when she explains, “I meant: what took you so long to finally ask her out?”

“Ask who out where?” Killian asks.

The “who” is obvious - he’s close to mirroring Tink’s raised brow at himself - but everything else is puzzling to him. He didn't tell Tink about Emma’s stay at his house yesterday (or any other time) and Emma certainly wouldn't.

And since they've both kept their mouth shut, their secret kept under lock and key in their heads (and hearts) Killian is puzzled.

Tink shakes her head. “Emma out on her trip. They just told me you were coming today to discuss it, which was news to me. It shouldn’t be, Killian. You need to get better at this friendship thing.”

He _does_ need to be a better friend as he’s been failing at the job for weeks now, but Tink makes it hard when she asks him questions like this. Her intent isn’t to harm (though it would be a lie to say that she doesn't have a harmful bone in her slight frame) yet, since she introduced Jefferson and Rose in the 10th grade, she’s been all about helping people find their love, which is a problem for reasons he doesn’t need to detail.

But, alas, she wants those details.

“Emma asked me,” he says.

“So, you _still_ haven’t revealed your feelings?” Tink says.

She turns to glare at him so he shoves her gently and says, “Keep your eyes on the road.” When she glares at the road instead, he says, “And I didn’t say that.”

“So, Emma knows?”

Killian shifts uncomfortably. The scent of her air freshener is stronger with the heat on, but he isn’t uncomfortable because of that. He’s been taking the hard path for too long to opt for the easy one and blame her ‘Fairy Mist,’ for his descent into the seat.

“She does,” he says.

“She _knows_?”

Killian ducks his head, groaning. He gives and he gives, but Tink wants more.

“Emma is rather perceptive except when she’s actively avoiding something, hence my not being sure whether she knows the extent of my feelings. Either way, I don’t want to pressure her so, if you please, can we end this conversation and instead continue this drive in uncomfortably heavy silence?”

Tink lets the quiet draw around them for a bit, before she lightens it with a laugh and says, “‘Uncomfortably heavy silence?’ I fear for her during this trip.”

Killian smiles, too, and says, “Fear for yourself, Tink. I’m just about ready to reach over and strangle you, both of us be damned.”

“I’m just trying to help you,” Tink says. “But anyway, you guys will be visiting my school. _My_ school! You must be excited.”

Killian refrains from reminding her that it’s her prospective school because he might be a bad friend, but he isn’t the _worst_. She’s stressed enough as it is, and it’s refreshing to hear her excited about her school instead of worried and depressed. Tink’s too bright to be dimmed by him or her fears.

He’d tell this to her, too, but he’s saving that for when she really needs it, also known as, the next time she calls him at two in the morning.

She didn’t ask a question, but he confirms his answer anyway, and says, “Yeah, I am a bit. The rugby team is talented from what I can tell of the few matches I've watched and my research. But I don’t know about Emma. You can ask her when we get there. Speaking of, can you drive a little faster?”

He’s spelled out his own doom with that last question, regretting it the moment it leaves his mouth.

Tink giggles. “Speaking of Emma...”

“Tink,” he warns, knowing it’s no use.

She shrugs, both hands leaving the wheel for a second. “There’s more to this that you’re not telling me, but I’ll stop nagging. Must be special if you’re worried about sharing it with me.”

“I’m not worried. I just want to keep it to myself,” he lies.

He lies because he’s been thinking, which is a bad idea. Because Killian contemplates, he ponders, he makes careful, patient considerations and plans accordingly, but always with a goal in mind - and he’s been _just_ thinking for too long that his body hums with restless energy, charged to overflow with nowhere to go. It’s the kind of energy that he hates the most because it’s the kind that makes him stupid.

He can’t be stupid when he has so much hanging in the balance. He’s risked his future once before - risked Belle’s, too, and he’ll regret that for long after the consequences of it have passed. He won’t put this new one in jeopardy, not when it looks so much brighter than the first.

He won’t risk it, even if all he wants to do when Tink pulls up behind Marian’s car - and he can just make out Emma through the window - is walk into Granny’s, slide into that empty seat beside Emma and wrap her under his arm.

The itch to act might feel like it’ll kill him, but he’s survived much worse.

(Wanting to kiss her and not being able to was so much easier when he didn’t have any chance at all.)

Tink’s voice makes him jump - “Calm down, Killian. Ruby’s sworn to be good. She even said she’ll make steps towards friendship.”

“Really?” Killian asks, and that’s enough to make him stop attempting to crush the seat belt. “Really?” he repeats, softer, glancing back at the window.

“Yes, I know, it’s surprising to me, too, but Marian swore up and down that she said it _and_ meant it,” Tink says.

When he looks at her, she bounces in her seat, her smile growing wider.

“Won’t it be great to have some friends that aren’t your teammates?” Tink says.

“I love my mates,” Killian protests.

Tink mutters something that Killian can’t make out - with his ears. He can read her lips well enough and scowls at Tink’s “Except when you’ve lost a match.”

Tink notices his gaze and shrugs. “You know you’re a sore loser.”

“I do know, so I _don’t_ know why you feel it necessary to mention it.”

Tink rolls her eyes. “Don’t pout, and get out of my car. We’re late.”

“Yes, darling,” Killian drawls.

He gives her an appeasing smile, and she rolls her eyes at this, too. She’s quickly on her way to being annoyed with him, so Killian selects not to mention that they’re late because of her. He sees no profit in entering Granny’s with Tink annoyed at him because he’ll need _someone_ on his side if things with Ruby go south as they too often do.

Killian might like Ruby if she ever let him. They could even be good, if not great friends, but his existence offends her enough. His appreciation will surely cause an all-out war.

_(Will_? Or is it _would have_ now?)

He’ll find out the answer to that soon enough.

His feet take him out of Tink’s car and to the door of Granny’s faster than his head can catch up so it’s only when he’s holding the door open for Tink that he actually allows himself to consider how Emma might react to seeing him after yesterday.

Killian’s thought of it in the general sense - something has shifted between them and they ( _she_ ) might have to acknowledge in some way, or ignore it and pretend like everything’s the same as it always was.

Sometimes Killian feels like he’s remembering that time before all of this in the wrong way because he certainly sees it in a different light than Emma does.

Killian used to look up in class and be blinded by the light, but then it was just Emma’s hair caught in the fluorescent glow or Emma’s smile turned in his direction.

Or Emma at his elbow, treating him as just Killian instead of ‘Killian Jones: Devil’, ‘Killian Jones: Rake’, ‘Killian Jones: Captain’, ‘Killian Jones: Orphan.’

(Although he was probably ‘Killian Jones: Annoyance’ in her mind often enough.)

Maybe he isn't remembering it wrong because he can’t see anything _wrong_ in recalling how a moment with her could improve his whole day.

“Killian, move it or lose it,” Tink says loudly.

And then she leans in quieter, “Don’t lose it just yet. You haven’t even said ‘Hi.’”

Killian rolls his eyes and allows her to walk past him, does what a gentleman would do and doesn’t glare at Tink’s back as she passes.

(The sarcastic smile, on the other hand.)

“Tink! Killian!” Marian calls.

Marian and Ruby step out of the booth to allow Tink to slide into the window seat, which leaves Killian a space to sit next to Emma on the opposite side.

Emma who won’t look his way.

He chokes back the sigh.

“You guys are late, but that’s okay. We’ve just been going through the Do’s and Don’ts of College Road Trips,” Ruby announces.

Killian looks to Emma again as she keeps her squinted gaze focused on her plate. She must’ve had her head on the table at some point because her dish is pushed too far away and she rests on her elbows like she’s about to fall into the same position.

“Do’s and Don’ts? Is this some kind of game that I’m not aware of?” Killian asks.

“No - of course not. What are you, an idiot -?”

Ruby leaves the rest of her sentence unsaid as she glances over at Marian. Shamed back into quiet, she says, “We’re offering rules -”

“Suggestions,” Marian says.

“As to what you and Emma should and should not do while on this trip. To make it smooth sailing all the way, you know?”

Killian _knows_ that Ruby doesn’t care about smooth sailing. What she does care about, and what she’s always cared about, is keeping him as far away from her friends as possible.

“As opposed to navigating the rough waters of arguments over the radio,” Killian jokes. He taps his hand down on the table and finally takes the seat beside Emma.

She looks up for a second, but glances away before he can catch her eye.

“Let’s start off with something easy,” Ruby says.

He looks away from Emma and smiles at Ruby instead.

The innuendo is on the tip of his tongue, ‘Why go easy when the hard way is so much more delightful?’ nearly slipping out, but Ruby hasn’t told him to fuck off yet and he shouldn’t give her an opening.

“Do: talk to each other. I want Emma to know everything there is to know about you,” Ruby says sweetly, dipping one of her fries in ketchup in a way that is almost innocent.

The ketchup is a dark shade of red, reminiscent of blood. Killian picks up on that real quick.

“So that Emma will know my weaknesses?” he guesses aloud.

He picks up a fry off Ruby’s plate and dips it in her ketchup, _his_ action anything but innocent. He may not want to give her an opening, but he isn’t going to roll over and just let Ruby have her way just _because_. It wouldn’t be sporting not to put up some fight.

(Killian’s a _really_ sore loser.)

She glares. “And so she can use them against you should you step out of line,” Ruby says icily, shoulders rising in threat. After a second, she settles back down, smile becoming warmer, “But we both know that she won’t have to because you’ll be on your best behavior.”

Killian’s smile rests on the edge of being too revealing so he keeps his gaze off Emma when he says, “She brings out the best in me, that’s true.”

Ruby stares at him. He’s not sure what to think of the tilt in her head and the slight furrow in her brow.  Ruby doesn’t make him nervous. And except on a few selection occasions, Killian isn't bothered by her because he can handle her bites with ease.

He can usually handle her, but _usually_ Ruby doesn’t look at him like that.

Killian looks away and finds Marian staring at him too.

(To be the subject of so much attention…)

“Do: say things like that. Always say nice things about Emma,” Marian says with a smile that is kinder and, thus, more threatening than Ruby ending her stare to swirl her blood red nails - freshly painted - through the ketchup on her plate.

This, Killian decides to be teasing about, because he knows Emma is now watching him from where she’s still resting on her elbows, and he can’t let her win everything so easily, can he?

(He can, and he wouldn’t even be _too_ sore about it.)

“When it’s warranted. Right, Swan?”

“Hey, it’s always warranted!” Emma says.

“Oh, you’ve finally decided not to ignore us?” Ruby asks.

Ruby glares at Emma who, when he turns his head to look, Killian is not surprised to find is glaring right back at her. The mark of true friendship is this: the way Emma looks ready to lunge across the table and the way Ruby looks likely to do the same.

(A mark of true friendship is the way Tink stares him down with a stupid smirk on her face, just a shade off of the one Killian wants to send Emma’s way.)

“Sorry that I _don’t_ like being talked about as if I’m not here and can’t speak for myself,” Emma says.

Killian, eager to draw her attention, says, “So, do you have something to add to this conversation?”

“I do, actually,” and Emma turns to him with a smile that could blind, which he doesn’t think would be helpful right now when he needs all his wits about him to keep him from tossing sanity aside and kissing her before the whole of Granny’s diner.

Although it does feel rather more insane that he _can’t_ do that right now.

“Do be helpful.” She pauses and her eyes go wild for a moment. Killian does smirk at Emma this time because she _doesn’t_ have anything to add. With a lame shrug of her shoulder, Emma says, “Don’t be annoying.”

He shouldn’t pick at it, but it’s too easy to pass up.

“Those are rather vague, don’t you think?” Killian asks.

“I’m just covering my bases,” Emma says.

The note in her voice, the way her breath sort of hitches when she says, ‘my bases,’ and how she drills her fingers on the table only to stop when he catches her eyes, it all makes his cheeks warm. There are moments when he could brush aside everything she’s done to hint at her feelings, even the admissions of _liking_ him and trusting him, but not when she’s like this. When she peels back her layers and lets everyone see behind her walls to the girl underneath. The girl who likes him. Trusts him. Wants him.

(Killian _really_ wants to kiss her.)

And then the layers are back and she pokes at him hard to punctuate every word as she says, “Most importantly, don’t touch the radio.”

-

“So, what is that? Eight things so far?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma says and only jumps a little when Killian's leg bumps against hers.

She tosses her head to the side, staring at him, and he shrugs, a half-assed apology that can barely be called half-assed when he’s on the verge of a smirk.

(And his half-assed attempts at not staring at her are doing him no favors either.)

“Eight things?” he asks. “What are the other…” He looks up, counting silently, and says, “…three?”

Emma glances at Ruby, warning, but Marian’s got it covered, answering before Ruby can.

“Just some simple reminders about getting gas before the tank dips too low, not picking up drifters, and watching for potholes in the roads.”

Killian looks at Emma for confirmation.

She nods slightly, which is unconvincing enough that he raises both eyebrows.

Dropping them back down, he says, “I suppose those are very good things to remember, although I’m sure Emma’s disappointed we won’t have a drifter companion on our journey.”

“Ha ha,” Emma says without laughing even though it’s the most she’s felt like laughing since she got into Granny’s.

Killian’s knee bumps hers again.

Emma looks away from him, a smile forming on her face.

“We need more food for the table,” Ruby announces. “I’ll go harass Granny. She might even bring us some pie if I’m annoying enough.”

Ruby hops out of her seat and heads towards the counter. It’s only a moment out of Ruby’s earshot when Killian says, “So, what are the other three?”

“Killian, don’t push it,” Tink warns.

“My feelings won’t be hurt by the truth,” Killian says.

He looks to Marian first, so Emma’s ready for his begging look before he sends it her way and as he does, she says, “They’re all variations on the usual theme.”

The usual theme, of course, being that he’s not to be trusted or liked lest Emma fall into his evil clutches, and should he commit any grievous crimes - to be determined by Ruby via text - Emma’s free to kick him out of the car and leave him stranded by the side of the road.

There was something said about “survival of the fittest” but Emma threw herself down on the table at that point and let Marian handle it, becauseonly Marian was fit to survive that conversation.

“That’s what I suspected,” Killian says.

Killian stares at her, and maybe she’s reading into things, which is kind of the point of holding his gaze, true, but he’s _smiling_ and still she thinks he looks disappointed to be right.

“She’s not going to stop hating me in a day,” he says.

Emma pats him on the shoulder. “Give it a couple of centuries.”

“I suppose I can wait that long,” he says.

He leans into her touch until she pulls away at Ruby’s loud groan.

“A little help would be appreciated,” Ruby says loudly.

Killian says, “I suppose that’s my cue,” and slides out of the seat to go help Ruby.

Emma watches the stand-off and shakes her head when Ruby finally allows him to help her. It’s as she’s turning towards Marian that she recognizes her mistake because realization widens Marian’s eyes.

“I might’ve been wrong about the college thing. The truth isn’t always easier than the lie,” Marian says.

Emma has no response ready to voice besides, “Yeah, well, _fuck,_ ” so she’s grateful when Ruby steps up to the table, drops a glass down on to it, and slides it over to Emma.

A little iced tea sloshes over her fingers as she picks it up and Marian reaches over with a napkin, offering it and a smile. “In any case,” Marian says, as Ruby drops the rest of the glasses on the table, “The advice still stands.”

“What advice?” Tink asks.

“That Emma invest in a GPS,” Marian lies smoothly.

Breathing easier, Emma says, “That’s what my phone is for.”

“And how many times have you lost that thing?” Marian says.

“It’s been a while,” Emma grumbles.

That last time doesn’t count seeing as she knew exactly where it was: in Killian’s hands.

She decides _not_ to mention that part. You know, since Marian’s being kind enough not to mention anything about Killian being “the boy.”

Emma likes this whole “ _not_ mentioning anything” thing.

It’s the awkward silence she can’t endure, but at least that passes fairly quickly when Ruby harrumphs back into her seat and Killian carries over another plate of fries.

“Now that we have the basics covered, is there anything else for the list?” Ruby asks.

“I’m sure Principal Blanchard has that covered,” Marian says.

Whatever Marian’s intent with that one, Ruby and Tink both choose to take it the completely wrong way, Tink cackling loudly into her hand while Ruby shoots her a sly grin and says, “Yeah, she has that covered twice a year. One time down, one more week of the SSSSSS to go, right?”

“I won’t even bother to hide the body,” Emma warns.

“I have something. For the list,” Killian cuts in.

Emma turns to him, and she’s not proud to admit that her first thought isn’t Do’s and Don’ts but _Dos,_ for lack of a more appropriate word for the other list burning a hole in her mind.

“What?” Ruby asks.

“We stay together.”

She’s not - no, proud isn’t the right word for how she feels. Rather, she doesn't understand how the SS Emma’s Sanity actually stays afloat through the flip-flopping of her stomach this time. It’s completely okay with her being happy with this.

A-OK with her nodding her head and agreeing, “Yeah, we should.”

And it finds nothing wrong with them staring at each other, nothing wrong with letting a smile slip free when she sees Killian’s.

“Makes sense,” Ruby says, and that’s the only thing that makes her turn away - and makes her head actually do its goddamn job and remember where she is. “His presence should ward off any kidnapping attempts.”

“Since we’re talking about kidnapping,” is probably the worst segue Emma has ever heard but it works for Tink and it works for everyone, so by the time Emma’s pushing Killian out of the seat so she can run to the bathroom and grab the pie she’s supposed to be bringing home, they have a list of nearly 25 items and growing.

She’s washing her hands when Tink enters the bathroom. Emma smiles at her and says, “Thanks for that last one. How could I possibly forget that I shouldn’t ruin my chances of getting into the college by throwing up on my interviewer’s shoes?”

“I forgot,” Tink says, but she’s smiling so Emma’s horror passes quickly. “I didn’t apply there anyway.”

“Yeah. Oh yeah, we’re visiting your school, right?”

Tink beams at her. “ _My_ school, yes! I can’t wait for you to visit. You have to tell me everything when you get back, okay?”

“Yeah, we will,” Emma says.

“Anyways, I need to pee,” Tink says and pushes her way into the stall.

Emma dries her hands and leaves the bathroom. She heads straight for the counter where Granny is already reaching out with the pie.

“Thank you,” Emma says.

“That’s a strange sight,” Granny says, looking past Emma with her eyebrow raised.

Ruby’s voice carries, drawing Emma’s attention in the direction of Granny’s gaze.

Emma does a double take.

“That’s stellar,” Ruby says, laughing _genuinely_.

Emma does a triple take.

She doesn’t make it to the quadruple take, stops counting after that because it’s _too_ strange of a sight. Killian and Ruby laughing and actually seeming to be enjoying each other’s company; she’s surprised neither have been struck down for committing the ultimate sin of being friendly.

It’s too strange. It’s too weird.

It’s too much and Emma’s head is spinning too fast.

She walks back over to them, catching a snippet of Killian’s low response, “...think it was Jeff that accomplished that one, but I can’t be sure.”

“Hey, Granny gave me a to-go box, so I’m going to go,” Emma announces.

The white box of her apple pie crumbles beneath her fingers. Self-aware, Emma forces her fingers to stop clenching so hard so that her smile isn’t so much forced as it is confused.

Both stop laughing and stare at her with the same “deer in headlights waiting for the car to turn them into roadkill” look.

( _Way too much._ )

“Come on, Emma, I know you did your homework. You couldn’t possibly have anything left to do after spending your Saturday doing it. Or are you telling me that you were just avoiding me?” Ruby says.

Emma _avoids_ Killian’s gaze.

“I did finish, but I’m a little tired, and I need to head to the station to meet Dad.”

“Past your bedtime, Lady Swan?” Killian asks.

The note in his voice, the way his words fade out on the endearment and how he works his fingers over the back of his neck and doesn’t stop when she meets his eyes, it all makes her face hot. And it’s like there are plenty of moments where she can pretend she doesn’t see his feelings, but not when he’s like this. When he’s so open with them that everyone can see that he likes her. Wants her. Maybe even...

(Emma’s not sure whether _she_ wants to run towards him or away.)

And then he smirks and her decision’s made with his added, “Or are you just eager to be out of our company?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Emma says.

(She isn’t lying.)

Nodding her affirmation, she says, “You two enjoy yourselves. And keep your hands to yourselves. Dad gets off early tonight. Don’t ruin that for him.”

“No worries. I’m sure Granny will handle Killian before it gets that far,” Ruby says.

As Emma’s walking past, Ruby grabs her hand and pulls her towards the table. Emma bumps it, scattering the last of the French fries across the table and down to the floor, and while Killian chases after them with his hands, Ruby pulls her down and whispers, “It’s weird that this isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

And it’s harder than Emma thought it would be.

She’s self-aware. She knows she’s freaking out, avoiding, _running_.

But she can’t stop herself from saying, “See you later, Ruby,” and tugging out of her grip.

Ruby waves her off, and before Killian can crawl out of the seat, Emma grabs her jacket, draping it over her arm, and speed walks right out the door.

-

She spends an infinity under the scrutinizing gaze of her father before he finally comes out and says it.

“You’re going away.”

Emma shakes her head, shrugging down further in his seat.

“It’s not even for a weekend,” Emma says.

“Eventually it won’t be for just a weekend,” he says.

Emma shrugs again.

“Are you scared?” he asks.

Emma doesn’t see the point in lying, but she does see one in the truth, so she says, “I'm terrified.”

“That’s good,” he says.

Emma raises both eyebrows and asks, “How is that good?”

“You’re not lying to yourself. That’s the first step. Everything after that is easy in comparison.”

He walks over and reaches out his hand to help her out of the cushy office seat. Pulling her under his arm, he says, “You’re doing great, Emma. Don’t forget that.”

He pulls her in tight and says, “And whatever had you running in here? It’ll turn out okay in the end.”

It’s easy for him to say that when he isn’t standing on the precipice of something (maybe, possibly wonderfully) good going to hell around her.

Emma sighs. “How can you be so...infuriatingly optimistic?”

“Learned habit. You’ll pick it up eventually. Hope is catching, Emma.”

Emma giggles. She’d been on the verge of a headache by the time she’d trudged through the cold,  pie in hand, and made it into the Sheriff’s office, but it’s gone, and now all she feels is laughter unfurling within her, shaking her belly and tightening her chest.

“Better not let Mom know. That’ll have her starting a new drive,” Emma says.

“Hope Eliminates Lingering…”

Emma turns under his arm to look up at him, and says, “Looking for another L word?”

“Give your old man a minute,” he chuckles.

“HELL Drive. She’ll like that,” Emma laughs, tucking her head back against him.

“Yeah, I think we’d best keep this one to ourselves,” he agrees.

He gives her shoulder one last squeeze and releases her. Gently pushing her ahead of him, he flicks out the desk lamp while she opens the door.

Graham waves and grins at her from his desk, stuck on the phone no doubt with one of the nuns. It _is_ Sunday, after all.

It comes to her then like a blasphemous lightning bolt to the head.

“HELL: Hope Eliminates Life's Limits,” Emma says, glancing back at her dad.

“That it does, Emma,” he says.

He smiles, so that’s some kind of sign from above, right? Everything going to hell isn't the worst thing in the world. It might be exactly what she needs.

(Her dad is right; hope _is_ catching.)

-

“I think Ruby’s coming around,” Belle says.

Killian twitches, the thought too much for his brain to comprehend. He’s still reeling from Ruby’s 180 from threatening him to actually, if Sunday’s probing questions and smiles and _laughter_ were to be believed, desiring his conversation.

(And then that she’d asked him for his number and texted him… he must have been dropped in a fairytale because it’s as unbelievable as “once upon a time” and “happily ever after.”)

“Aye?” he asks.

Belle nods. She picks up one of the books off the counter, a donation from the Portland High library. If anyone’s happiness at this new arrangement between their schools can rival Principal Blanchard’s, it’s Belle’s. He hasn’t seen someone smile so much at a book since he caught Jefferson going through a book of baby names with Rose.

She lifts her gaze from the book and directs her smile at him. “Ruby can hold a grudge for a lifetime, but she’s decided - with help - not to hold one against you anymore, so it won’t be long before she falls for you,” Belle says.

Killian snorts. Now _this_ is more than a stretch of the imagination. It’s downright perturbing. “That’s a bit too hopeful, don’t you think?” he asks.

“I’ve never known you not to be hopeful,” Belle says, furrowing her brow.

(He has no idea what she means.)

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he says.

“You’ve been all…”

She quiets and fiddles with the book in her hands, running a finger over its spine. Killian steps towards her, forcing her to look up. She lets out a small sigh and drops the book back down on the counter.

“Why did you always come to Granny’s when you knew that no one wanted you there?” Belle asks.

He jerks back, staring at her in confusion.

“What a question, lass,” he murmurs. Louder, he says, “I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to stop going…”

He trails off at Belle’s emphatic nod. Her smile is tiny but sure.

“Just because of that. Exactly. You didn’t let the prospect of being murdered hold you back, and look, it isn’t even on the table anymore. Why does the idea of Ruby’s friendship seem so hopeless?”

“When you put it that way, I look like a fool,” he replies.

“You are, which is why I thought to offer my help in seeing things clearly,” Belle says.

He gives her a curled smirk, and he’s all swagger when he says, “Oh, lass, I didn’t know you cared.”

And, yet, Belle still has the upper hand.

“You didn’t?” Belle asks.

Killian jerks back again, and reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. Belle smiles and picks up her book.

“Want to work on calculus?” she asks.

“And now you _want_ me to look the fool? Make up your mind,” Killian laughs.

The sound catches in his throat, so he clears it, and tries again, all the while with Belle shaking her head.

“It’s Calc BC. No one gets it, so we’ll be fools together,” she says.

He gets it.

(Not Calc BC; he won’t argue with Belle on that one.)

But he gets it the moment she brushes her hair back and says, “And who knows? Maybe one day, you and Ruby will be, too.”

He gets that Belle’s no fool (and that word doesn’t feel like a real word anymore, but it’s still fitting), but he and Ruby? They’re birds of a feather, two peas in a pod, perhaps twins separated at birth, at least in this.

At least in the way Belle’s eyes twinkle and she lets out a sigh that draws her lips up in a smile when they’re working on one of the problems and she says, “I think Ruby applied to Stanford for me. She hasn’t told me yet, though. I think she’s worried we won’t both make it. She doesn’t want to get my hopes up.”

She tilts her head at him and says, “You and Emma are applying to the same schools, too, right?”

Without waiting to see his face scrunch up in realization, she looks back down at the problem and says, “I think I’m right.”

“Aye,” he confirms.

(He _gets_ it.)

Because here he and Ruby are, both reaching for the impossible and _hoping_ it reaches back.

“Here I’ll show you,” Belle says.

(She already has.)

-

“It's October 22nd,” her mother announces when she makes it downstairs because apparently Emma needs a reminding of that rather than a normal ‘Happy Birthday.’

“Yep,” she agrees genially enough.

Or at least she thinks so, but her mother must be overcompensating for Emma's lack of enthusiasm because she bounces on her feet and says, “It’s October 22nd, my favorite day of the year.”

Emma pauses in opening the fridge, and leans against the door instead, smiling tiredly.

Whatever her expression might say before she’s had her (lately) necessary cup of coffee, it’s her favorite day of the year, too.

It’s only been that way since she was 5, but that can’t be helped since Emma’s first family was the Swans.

And the Swans, they gave her back when she was 3.

Still, she always thinks of them on her birthday, thinks of how _they_ gave her back and how Mary Margaret Blanchard and David Nolan took her in. On the day they officially adopted her, David took her by the hand while Mary Margaret lifted up her chin and asked Emma, very seriously - a tone she still uses on students, teachers, and husband alike - whether she would rather be a Nolan or a Blanchard.  Emma had rubbed at the tears in her eyes, desperate for them not to see, and whispered, “I wanna be a Swan,” and instead of sending her back too or insisting she choose, David had laughed and squeezed her hand while Mary Margaret tickled her chin and said, “That’ll confuse everyone. Good thinking, Emma.”

Emma liked being called “good” by her. “Good thinking, Emma,” sounded more like “I love you,” than any of the times the Swans told her the words.

It sounds the same now when Emma whines, a coffee-deprived cry of, “You shouldn’t make a big deal, you know. It’s just a birthday.”

And all her mother says is “Good thinking, Emma. We won’t make a big deal,” just before the crunch of tires on their gravel driveway draws Emma’s attention.

The beep of a foreign horn is what makes Emma stand straight, forgetting the need for coffee. It also makes Mary Margaret laugh and reach over to take Emma’s hand.

“It’s not a big deal, Emma,” she says.

“It’s a car,” Emma says. With a triumphant fist pump, she says, “I knew it.”

“We were that obvious?”

“You’re always that obvious. I knew you were going to adopt me before you even asked,” Emma says.

She didn’t know, actually. She’d hoped, she’d hoped so much that she’d thought herself magic when her wish came true.

At 18 (now, today, _finally_ ) of course she doesn’t still believe herself magic, but everything still seems just a touch so when her mother’s hand is in hers and they’re skirting across the floor together, bumping the table as they race to meet her dad, just like they did when Emma was little enough to duck beneath the table and beat her mother there.

Outside the door, her father leans against his truck while Graham crouches by a yellow Volkswagen, casually wiping off the rim of the front wheel with an old rag, as nonchalant as can be.

Emma turns and leans in to kiss her mother on the cheek.

“Happy birthday, Emma,” also sounds a lot like “I love you” when it spills so happily from her mom's lips.

“I knew you’d like it,” Graham says, literally patting himself on the back as Emma approaches, her face split in a wide grin.

“Did you pick it?” Emma asks.

Her father cuts in with a wave of his hand and gruffly says, “We came to a mutual agreement.”

Graham explains, “Your father wanted to get you one of the newer ones, but I voted for a classic.”

“I love it,” Emma says. She swings around towards her father just in time to be captured in a tight, head cradling hug. He smells like outside, like he’s been working with the animals at the shelter, but she doesn’t really mind, too happy for even a joking reprimand.

“Can I take it for a drive?” she asks when he releases her.

Her father’s hands settle on his hips. Looking to Graham, he gives the Officer Nod, the one that she’s translated to mean “Emma’s going to pull one over on us and we’re helpless to fight back.” He gives the same nod to her mother, lines around his eyes crinkling in a soft smile.

The smile widens when he says, “The insurance is all set so you can but -”

“Keep it under 40?” Emma supplies.

“20 in the school zones. Go ahead and pick up Ruby. She insisted we tell you this when we nearly ran her down as she tore across the street during a green light.”

“She has a lot on her mind,” Emma says, shaking her head at Ruby's recklessness anyway.

“Safety sure isn’t one of them,” Graham teases, sending Emma one of the looks that used to make her heart jump, all kind eyes and ‘I laugh at my own jokes.’

“Please don’t kill my students, David. You’re the sheriff, you need to set a good example,” her mother says, so Emma turns back to her.

“Murder is Not Okay. I’ll use that as my yearbook tagline,” Emma says.

Her mother, her father, and Graham sigh simultaneously.

(She’s _definitely_ using that as her tagline.)

“ _Emma_.”

“The keys?” she says, sidling up beside Graham. She knocks his shoulder and he rubs at hers.

“Here you go,” he says, handing her the keys while her father says, “Call me after you’ve parked at Ruby’s. Be careful.”

“I will,” Emma promises.

“Oh, and, happy birthday, Emma.”

Emma grins, gently pushes Graham aside and throws open the bug door. It's a classic alright, the interior straight out of Herbie Fully Loaded, but damn if she doesn't love the smell of the old leather already.

(Who needs coffee when you have that smell to keep you awake?)

She jumps out of the car only after her father and Graham are pulling out of the driveway, hurries back in the house just to grab her backpack and phone.

Emma has three text messages, all of them from Ruby, all of them mostly emoticons and exclamation points.

Back outside the house, Emma gets into the car again and snuggles down into her seat, buckles her seatbelt and locks in the keys before taking a deep, deep breath and backing out of the driveway in her car.

Her car.

Her little _yellow_ bug.

She looks at the keys, the yellow unicorn hanging from the key ring.

(This is Emma’s favorite day of the year.)

-

Killian sees her as he’s walking down Main Street.

To be exact, he sees the car first, the bright yellow drawing his eye while it rests at the longest light in Storybrooke.

He sees Emma only after he gets close enough to meet her eyes, crossing the street in front of her car.

“Happy birthday, Lady Swan,” he says when she rolls down the window.

The words or the day itself must wield some kind of magic because Emma grins widely and says, “Get in.”

He stares at her, and notices Ruby in the front passenger seat for the first time when she reaches over and beeps the horn for Emma, forcing him into motion.

“Hurry up, Jones,” Ruby says, still leaning into Emma’s space, her hand hovering above the horn in threat. “Don’t make me late.”

“Please,” Emma says.

The plea was unnecessary, especially when the note is so familiar. It’s too bloody early for a sound like that.

How he’s going to last a weekend with her smiling like that, too… Killian’s prepared to suffer on this trip, but it’s unfair that it has to start now when he isn’t ready and when Ruby is turning back in his seat to stare at him.

“Like Emma’s new car?” she asks.

“I am a fan of leather interiors,” he says.

Dropping his bag in the pile on the floor, he looks up just in time to see Emma glance up at him through the rearview mirror. She’s still smiling.

(He’s ridiculously weak for the green of her eyes, especially when they’re lit with her smile.)

“Me too,” she says.

The stoplight finally turns green so Emma rolls forward at a slow crawl. Ruby huffs loudly and says, “We’re not in a school zone yet.”

“And yet, this is still a 35mph zone. Relax. You’ll be on time for meeting Ashley,” Emma says.

This must not be a new conversation because Ruby’s crossing her arms angrily and huffing.

“But she was going to tell me about -”

Ruby turns to glare at Killian.

“Shall I plug my ears?” he asks.

“Please -” Ruby starts.

Emma only just misses the horn when her other hand slams on the wheel and she practically shouts, “Don’t!”

He nods his head in Emma’s direction obligingly. With a contrite spread of his hands, he says, “Sorry, Ruby. It’s her birthday.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ruby says.

Emma makes a noise, which covers for the face that Killian makes. He may have accepted that Ruby’s more okay with this situation than he expected, but it’s still so new that he’s yet to truly meet her on the same playing field.

(Truly, despite Belle’s assurances, he’s still waiting for her to take a swing at him.)

“Emma, why are you slowing down?” Ruby asks as they near the school.

“20mph in a school zone, that’s why,” Emma says.

Ruby hisses and grits her teeth loudly. Her dentist must have his work cut out for him if this is a common occurrence.

“If you’re going to spend this whole morning whining…”

Emma doesn’t finish the thought, sighs, and pulls into the school parking lot. She’s just finding a space when Ruby clicks open the door.

He’s surprised that the moment Emma pulls to a complete stop, Ruby doesn’t fly right through the door in her haste to get out of the car. She nearly wrenches it free from its hinges, drawing a curse from Emma’s mouth. Killian passes her backpack forward before she asks, so she has the chance to say, “I’m sorry, I need to go, Emma, it’s urgent,” in a hurried breath before racing out of Emma’s car.

Killian’s still unbuckling his own seatbelt when Ruby disappears within the school’s double doors, and Emma’s still getting her key out the ignition when he grabs up his backpack.

“Wait,” he tells her before she opens the door.

Emma turns fully in her seat. “Are you enjoying my car too much? Don’t ever want to leave? You’ll have the whole weekend with it, Killian.”

“That’s the nicest way someone’s ever told me to get the hell out of their car,” Killian says.

“Does that happen often?” Emma asks.

“Once or twice in the past, but never mind my car mishaps, I have something for you,” he says.

He ducks his head, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth while he digs in his backpack. He’d planned to give her this tomorrow, didn’t think he’d get a quiet moment with her before then, but he isn’t going to waste this golden opportunity.

Killian glances at her, and has to look away.

(Weak. He’s so damn weak.)

-

(Holy fuck.)

(Okay, maybe not _fuck_.)

(He got her something.)

Out of his backpack, Killian pulls a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine. The paper’s crushed and folded beneath the twine, and she can see a little color peeking through, a bright yellow and a pale peach but she has no idea what it’s supposed to be.

Jokingly, Emma says, “There was an attempt.”

He presses a finger to his lips, shushing her, his ears tinged with pink.

“Just take it, Emma. Be kind to me. I tried my best,” he says.

Truth be told, it’s not a bad effort. Truth be told, Emma’s scared of what she’ll find when she opens it.

(Truth be told, she’s yet to wrap her head around it.)

(Around him getting her something.)

(Around him _wanting_ to.)

“You don’t have to open it now, but it’s a good idea,” he says.

He offers her the package, and she takes it carefully, unable to look at him now.

“Why’s that?” she asks, gaze focused at the package in her hands.

“Open it and find out,” he prompts.

She blinks.

(He got her a gift.)

She blinks again, clearing whatever’s in her eyes, but finds her hands are shaking instead. He has to see how much she utterly hates this, but she looks up and he’s smiling at her like it shouldn’t be a surprise at all, reddening like he knows how she feels.

Carefully, even with her shaking hands, she unknots the twine and peels back the brown paper. She wrinkles her nose when the smells hit her, enough conflicting scents to tickle like the beginnings of a sneeze, and then she has to laugh when she actually focuses in and realizes what the gift is.

It’s a set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer air fresheners.

“How the hell?” she asks, flipping through the characters. Buffy, Angelus, Faith, Oz, Willow. Xander and Spike are missing, but she doesn’t care, it’s just so -

“Etsy is a marvelous place,” Killian replies.

“This is so…”

“Weird? Nerdy? Embarrassing? All three?” Killian supplies.

He must think he has all the possible answers covered, but Emma has one of her own, toying on her tongue and speeding up her heartbeat.

“Option E?” she says.

“And what’s Option E?” he asks.

“All three, and - it’s just really, really nice of you.”

He straightens in the backseat, and Emma is certain that if they weren’t in front of the school, she’d probably jump him right there just to throw the tension out of his spine, but there are students and teachers already milling about so she merely grins stupidly and adds, “I love it. Which one should I use first?”

Killian slumps back down in the seat and he taps his knee to an off-beat, and says, “Angelus smells the best, in my opinion.”

“I’m sure he would agree, but Faith smells like cinnamon.”

She turns back in her seat, and places the other characters in her glove compartment. She leaves Faith on the center console and doesn’t get the chance to open her because Killian gets to her first. His arm presses to her side while he opens up the air freshener and the scent of cinnamon overpowers the smell of leather.

She thinks she might like this scent more.

He doesn’t move his arm so she’s forced to move out of his way so he can squeeze between the seats and hang the air freshener himself.

Killian’s shifting back in the seat when Emma grabs his arm, one thought driving her.

His eyes flit over her face, lingering on her lips, their final destination her own eyes.

(She wants to kiss him.)

“Thank you,” she says.

He doesn’t say a word like she stole his words with her gratitude.

(He’s within distance.)

(All she has to do is reach out…)

She sighs, drawing back, and says, “I should go in and grab a sandwich. I forgot breakfast.”

“And I have to go get the rest of my homework,” he says, drawing back into the seat as well.

The air in the car smells like cinnamon, but it feels colder than that warmth, and her lips feel the coldest of all.

She touches them, but it just isn’t the same.

(Emma _really_ wants to kiss him.)

“Get out my car,” she says.

“If that’s what you want.”

He says it like he _knows_ exactly what she wants, so she doesn’t look at him because she knows he wants it, too.

She imagines Ruby singing it at her, “ _It’s your birthday, you can cry if you want to._ ” And maybe Marian would chime in knowingly, “ _Kiss who you want to._ ”

And maybe Emma would actually take those words to heart and not just sit here and let him leave her sitting alone in her car.

(Maybe she’d actually kiss him.)

-

Killian’s halfway through his second nightmare of the evening when his phone buzzes, the vibration a more soothing sound than a lullaby.

He can’t begin to feel ungrateful for Emma’s name lighting up his phone screen, but he also can’t deny that he’d rather hear her voice.

**12:34: can you drop by Mama’s tomorrow morning and get me a donut before we go? i’ll make it up to you**

He grins at his screen, swipes the nightmare out of his eyes, and types back, “i’ll hold you to that.”

As tempted as he is to pull her into a conversation, he'd also rather she not fall asleep at the wheel tomorrow, so he dashes his thoughts and texts, “go to sleep.”

**1:35: thank you...uh, sweet dreams?**

It takes him aback, all the uncertainty packed in that one question mark. As if he wouldn't wish her sweet dreams.

He thought he was more predictable than that.

“Sweet dreams,” he types back. He looks it over before he sends it, deletes it, and writes instead, “The sweetest dreams, Emma.”

He doesn't get a response to that, which he’s fine with.

He also doesn’t fall back asleep, which he isn’t as fine with, but there isn’t much he can do. Sometimes he has nights like this, where the nightmares reach the point where going back to sleep is an impossibility.

Tonight the lack of sleep is more productive than usual. His mind doesn’t succumb to the cracks in the ceiling, the creaking of the floor, or the notches in his walls from various hits and bangs. The sound of the old pipes doesn't eat away at the wounded pieces of his heart.

Instead, he dashes the usual thoughts and thinks of tomorrow.

He thinks of Emma, and the thought drives him out from underneath the sheets and to his desk and the notebook lying haphazardly on the edge, the only thing out of place.

(Chaos isn't solely confined to its bindings.)

By morning, he has ten pages of cross-outs, blotted words, and lines that he actually likes. It’s not the usual pages he’d rather toss in the sea, an easy task when you’re living within walking distance of the harbor. It’s been a very long while since he felt like this, happy with the beginnings of what could be something he might see through to the end.

It has been a very long while since any end has seemed anything but bitter.

Emma is supposed to meet him at 6AM to get to the college by 10AM so Killian gets himself ready and out the door by 5:30.

The walk to Mama’s is a quick in and out, so he hits the pavement of his driveway just in time to watch Ratched leave.

He exhales tiredly as he steps back inside his bedroom. Enduring an attempt at a proper goodbye with Ratched was far out of his current ability. He thanks, not the gods above, but Ratched for taking the apathetic way out and just leaving a note taped to his bedroom door with cash and an order to “behave” himself in keeping with the “terms of our arrangement.”

He’s tired enough that his bed looks particularly inviting, but all he has to do is look at the packed backpack at the foot of it to get a burst of energy guaranteed to keep him awake at least until he sees Emma.

And then _she's_ guaranteed to keep him awake.

He doesn’t wait long.

Emma is much kinder than Tink in that she chooses to ring his doorbell when she gets to his house rather than blowing her horn to oblivion.

He’s at the door before she has to ring it for a second time, sweeping her inside and into his arms before she can say a hello. Cold clings to her jacket but with it unzipped and her chest pressed to his, her warmth soaks into him, dissolving the autumn chill.

“Good morning to you too,” she says.

She doesn’t step out of his embrace or push him away. Here, at least, they've moved beyond that.

“Good morning,” he says, practically nosing her hair. Her boots must have no heel to them because she’s shorter than usual, the perfect height for forehead kisses. Instead, he leans down to press his forehead to his and says, “I have coffee and your donut.”

“Coffee,” Emma moans excitedly.

She wriggles out of his arms and drags him in the direction of his own kitchen, nose inclined to the sky to keep her on target.

“I suppose I'm giving you the tour today? Or are you giving it to yourself?” he asks, catching her when she trips on the scrap of wood between the door.

“I think I can figure out that you have a kitchen,” Emma says.

She lets him go and he sways on his feet a bit, a wave of tiredness hitting him as he says with dry amusement, “I also have a living room, a dining room and a basement.”

“That’s nice, but more importantly, do you have milk?” Emma asks.

She helps herself to his fridge, seeking the answer herself.

“Never mind, found it,” she says a moment later, pulling the milk out.

Emma remains in the open doorway, reaching out her other hand to trace the lid of Tuesday’s leftover lasagna.

“Nurse Ratched labels her food? Why? Does she think you’ll steal it?”

He lifts a hand, waving away the concern in her voice, and says, “No. I suspect that it’s just a work thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Her tone is just a touch disbelieving, but after studying him for a moment, she releases the lasagna, hip bumps the fridge door closed and heads towards the coffee pot.

She’s reaching towards the cabinets when she pauses, coming back down onto her heels. Slowly, she turns to face him, eyes downcast.

“I’m making myself too comfortable here, sorry. Can I have a cup?” she asks.

“It’s in the cabinet you were going for. You don’t have to apologize. I want you to be comfortable.”

He steels himself for her to protest, but she surprises him and simply turns back towards the cabinet.

“Just tell me if I’m being too -”

She swings open the cabinet and it nearly socks her in the face. Killian starts towards her, but she has it handled, catching it centimeters away from it blackening her eye. Unaffected by the close call, Emma grabs his favorite coffee cup, the blue and green one with the golden bottom, and cradles it carefully in her hands.

“Just tell me if I’m being rude or anything,” Emma says, turning her head slightly. She bites at her lip and says, “Please.”

“Well, _this_ is highly rude. You can’t just take a man’s coffee cup,” Killian says.

“What?” She stops when she fully looks at him, and he only grins wider as she dips her head long-sufferingly and says, “Stake your claim all you want, this cup is mine.”

He lifts his hands in surrender.

“Highly rude,” he says, making no attempt to stifle his laugh.

She ignores him, although he knows it’s difficult because her shoulders shake and he catches a smile before she turns her head and makes her coffee, going first for the pot itself. Milk comes next, returned to the fridge seconds later, and followed by her popping open the drawers until she finds a spoon so she can take a disgraceful amount of sugar from the sugar tin.

The whole process is so casual that he gets caught in it, in how she just fits in his kitchen, not as an interloper or a guest but as a lifetime resident.

(It’s rather appropriate how a longing makes its home deep in his chest.)

He reaches up to the play with the hair at the back of his neck, closing his eyes. When he opens them a long moment later, Emma sips at her coffee, studying him over the rim of his cup.

“You look tired. Didn’t you sleep?” she asks.

“It just wasn’t in the cards last night,” he replies.

He moves towards her, not sure whether he’s going for the coffee or whether he’s just using that as an excuse to share in her space.

“I didn’t sleep either. Nervous jitters, I guess,” she says.

She digs holes into the floor, her stare seeing beyond them to the earth beneath and trying to dig even deeper.

He holds himself back from touching her chin and lifting her head to meet him. Killian tries a different tactic, one that keeps his hands to himself even though he craves the comfort of her touch, probably as much as she craves the donut on his counter - probably even more than that.

“There’s no need to be nervous around me, Emma. How many times must I tell you that?”

The joke works to lift the frown from her face and her eyes off the ground. She eyes him while making a piss poor attempt to hide her smile behind the coffee mug when she says, “Until I get it, apparently.”

With her frown dashed, it’s easier for him to address the actual problem.

“It’ll be an easy trip. Tink’s school isn’t that far, and then we’ll be back home before dinner hopefully. Speaking of food, I trekked a good distance for that,” he says, elbowing the donut on the counter.

“You’re doing well so far,” Emma says.

He chuckles, stepping around her to reach for his own coffee cup. She turns with him, and when he drops away from the cabinet, he replies, “Ah, yes, ‘catering to your whims’. That was, what, number 17 on the Dos and Don’ts list?”

_Speaking of lists…_

Killian reads the same thought in the dusting of red across her cheeks.

It’s occurred to him - no, occurred implies one occasion and it’s been more than that, preying on his mind from the moment she dragged him back to that treehouse. It was a one-time thing, and then suddenly it was a two time thing, and he’d run through the list in his head, his mind lingering on lucky #7: _public_ , the “anyone might see and _know_ ” number. He’d decided then, confident in doing so even though he’d been drunk, that when (not if, _never_ if, because ‘if’ would mean giving up on her and he could never do that) - when it got that far, he’d make sure she was okay with that but -

Emma had wanted to kiss him, too. Yesterday, in her car, he saw it when her eyes dropped to his mouth, the small lean into him before she glanced out into the school lot, shot backwards in her seat, and ordered him out of her car.

She’d wanted to kiss him, but she hadn’t, and there lies the problem. There’s no moving forward with anything when she isn’t ready.

And doing anything on this trip would just be like moving sideways.

(It’s still “public” if you don’t know the people you’re kissing in front of, but the public doesn’t matter if you’re never, in all likelihood, going to see them again.)

“Don’t think too hard. You’ll pop a blood vessel,” Emma says.

“That would certainly ruin things, wouldn’t it? I don’t want to bring the wrath of Ruby down upon us,” he says.

“Upon _you_.”

She pokes at his chest to emphasize it and he falls back. Forget about the coffee, his bruises will keep him awake.

“Ouch,” he says, not just in reference to Ruby’s wrath.

She cants her head, blonde hair slipping over her shoulder, weak annoyance in her stance. She barely even places her hands on her hips after setting her empty coffee cup down on the counter.

“We should get going. I can eat in the car. Grab your things?”

Killian sets his empty coffee cup down on the counter, too.

“Yeah,” he says.

He’s about to press his luck but the thought of passing up this opportunity, of passing up the growing realization in her eyes and the subsequent parting of her lips - it would be such a waste to leave her lips unkissed or her waist untouched or -

Emma’s hands leave her hips and she pulls him into her. Dragging her tongue over her bottom lip, she stares up at him before stepping up onto her toes.

She bumps their lips. It’s not even a kiss, just a gentle nudging and he’s already overrun with desire. Sleepy kisses must be his weakness because he groans when she finally seals their lips and the sound rumbles his chest, something she must feel when he reaches for her, too, wrapping his arms beneath her jacket to smooth over her back.

He could honestly -

He could -

Damn the school visits, he could spend all weekend with her here, just like this or however she wants him (she _wants_ him, he can taste it in the remnants of coffee on her lips, feel it in the fingers tangled in his shirt and sharply pressing into his back). He could _finally_ -

She’s not ready.

It’s the only reason he steps back when the kiss is heating up, speeding down paths he’d love to follow.

He steps back, and her face falls, the red becoming hotter in her cheeks while she licks at her bottom lip like she’s trying to dig a groove into it with her tongue.

“I should go get my things -” he stammers.

“Yeah, I’ll be in my car,” she says.

She’s so quick to flee his kitchen that she leaves her donut on the counter, forgotten. He follows her out into the hall, but she disappears out the front door, so he stands there for a moment before he throws his head back and lets out a string of curses.

He returns to the kitchen and grabs her donut. She’ll want it later. Being upset at him isn’t enough to change that.

Making quick work of locking down the house, he heads outside to join Emma in her car. She has her head pressed to the top of the wheel, but jerks up when she hears him shut the door.

He gives her a moment, taking a little bit of time to lock the door, and when he turns back around she’s straightened in her seat.

Killian mulls over whether to address it for half a second before he stalks over, opens the car door and says, “If I kept kissing you, we never would have left the house.” He remains within the doorway, lifting an eyebrow playfully and asks, “Unless that’s what you were going for, darling?”

She blinks and shakes her head, the wrinkles in her forehead settling into crinkles around her eyes instead, a smile dimpling her cheeks.

“Get in the car,” she says, starting up the engine.

He sighs. “What a missed opportunity for an enjoyable weekend, Emma.”

“The sleep deprivation must be going to your brain,” she says.

Killian moves to open the backdoor, dropping his backpack on the floor beside hers and then returns to the front so he can settle comfortably beside her.

Emma looks over at him, and he meets her eyes, surprise dropping his jaw when she moves in again. Her lips brush his cheek in a light kiss.

“You should go to sleep,” she says. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

It takes a moment for him to gather himself enough to speak. No use for feeling embarrassed however, so he gives her a cheeky smile, and says, “I think the sleep deprivation is getting to you as well.”

“I’m just fine,” Emma says, and pulls out of the driveway.

He watches her for as long as he can, but with her permission ringing in his ears and her kiss, it’s almost impossible for him to stay awake. He’s too happy and too damn exhausted.

Emma keeps glancing at him in the mirror. He catches a smile once or twice.

He makes sure she sees it when he returns the look, and only after her gaze darts back to the road does he close his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep.


	8. when she described her underwear...

Killian wakes before the dream can end, but it’s a necessary evil. His stomach is rolling with hunger and he chokes on the dryness of his throat. Blindly, he reaches for the water bottle in the cup holder and chugs half of it down before he opens his eyes.

His first vision is of the gas station around Emma’s parked car. His second is of Emma. She taps him on the shoulder and he turns to look at her with sleepy eyes.

And what a vision she makes in the loosely knotted ponytail she must’ve made while he was sleeping, with her jacket divested, the top of her shirt unbuttoned to dangerous levels, and her fingers still resting on his arm.

“Wake up. I need you to get the gas,” Emma says.

She snaps her other hand in front of him, so he mirrors her by snapping to attention, straightening soldier-like just to drag a smile out of her.

“You wake me up to put me to work?” he asks when her cheeks finally dimple enough to match the dimple in her chin.

“Yes and -”

He brushes her cheek and presses his thumb into that dimple, stroking lightly, and she takes in a breath.

“And?” he prompts her.

She frowns like he’s making her admit to a crime and says, “I want your company.”

“You have it,” he says.

“Good, I was getting bored. Even the GPS lady is starting to make me sleepy.”

“We can’t have that.” He looks up to see another car pulling up behind them and says, “Let me get the gas.”

Killian’s only out of the car for a few minutes, but it’s long enough for the cold to start slowly seeping into his bones. When he’s safely within the car doors and out of the cold, he nods at Emma to pull away.

He’s supposed to be keeping her awake, but he finds himself just watching her instead. Emma drives one-handed unless she’s making a turn so he watches the workings of her other hand, dancing across her thigh to start tapping on her knee.

“You’re staring,” she says.

He smirks as she merges back onto the highway, and says, “Should I apologize?”

She’s too busy trying to decide on a lane to chastise him with her eyes as well as her words, but she does that fantastically enough, passing the point of sarcasm and straight into derision when she says, “Would you be apologizing for this time or the other times? Or maybe this is for the next time? Tell me just _what_ would this apology be covering?”

“How about the whole lot?” he says.

She gives him a sideways glance.

“That’ll cost you,” Emma says.

“I’m prepared to pay whatever cost.” He wiggles his eyebrows even though she can’t see him and says, “In whatever way you want.”

“Mmhmm,” Emma hums.

They grow quiet again and Killian looks away from her only because she probably doesn’t need the distraction of his gaze on the hair slipping out of her ponytail to curl at her neck, on the pink of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes every time the truck beside them sways into their lane.

(He just might be the one to need the distraction.)

“Tell me something, Killian,” Emma says.

He looks back at her, eyebrow raised.

It sounds like the start of a question but when said question goes unasked, he wracks his brain for a “something” to tell her. He’d had quite a few of them after Ruby’s “Emma should know everything about you so she can break you easier,” rule but now he doesn’t remember a single one.

So, he goes with the simplest thing.

“My favorite color is green,” he says.

“Wow. That’s _really_ something. I could’ve sworn it would be black.”

More sarcasm. Killian grins.

“Even though I look excellent in black, it’s not my favorite,” he says.

“Well, my favorite color changes given the day. As do the color of my clothes.”

She takes a second to glance over at him and his all black ensemble, and when her eyes are back on the road, he can still see the smugness in her pouted lips.

Killian would tell her that she looks particularly kissable like that, but what would be the use in stroking her ego when he’d rather stroke his own?

(The use being that he’d get to see her blush, and he doesn’t want that right now when she’s driving and he can do nothing to make the pink linger longer and turn her pout into something rounder.)

(Fuck, he’s going to drive himself crazy _just_ thinking about it.)

Shaking his head, he wheels himself back into safer territory and says, “Come out and say it, Emma, you want to see what I look like in red. I can tell you right now that I look fantastic.”

Her forehead wrinkles and while she thoughtfully places her finger on her chin, she says, “I have seen you in red a few times. When you broke your nose. At Mama’s after your game. After a lot of your games, actually. Do you _ever_ play one without getting hurt?”

“I guess you could say that it gets my blood going.”

“Yeah, going all over the field,” she drawls. He’s about to respond when she glances at him again, and with the sarcasm gone from her voice, she says, “How did you get into that, by the way? Like - I’m honestly still confused as to why we even _have_ a rugby team.”

“Because it’s a great sport,” he says.

She completely ignores him, musing thoughtfully again, “Storybrooke _is_ a small town. Maybe we couldn’t afford a football team. Maybe that’s why they chose the one with less protective gear.”

Choosing to ignore her obvious attempt at getting a rise out of him, he answers her first question, “It was a way to let out some of my anger in a more productive way, as they say. No more breaking into principal’s offices and chasing after criminals for me.”

It comes out as less of a joking answer than he means it to be, with more truth in his words than he meant to share.

They both draw into silence.

Killian glances out the window and the cars speeding by theirs. He did tell her he’d tell her about Belle and everything another time, but he didn’t mean at a moment like this when he’s headed into an entire weekend in her company. He doesn’t expect the weekend to be perfect beyond the fact that he gets to spend it with her, but he isn’t going to be the one to sour it.

Another time, he’ll tell her.

He practices the words, _another time, Emma_ , hoping that it’ll sound less like a lie when he speaks it aloud.

“And have you let it out?” Emma asks.

The ‘ _another time’_ gets swallowed by her question. Killian looks at her, and she may have her eyes on the road, but he can see it in her stance, the way she just _knew_ what he wasn’t ready to say.

It still comes as a surprise how well she understands him, the way they understand each other.

“Mostly. Sometimes it doesn’t work,” he answers.

“Like last night?”

(Always perceptive, his Swan.)

“Yeah, like last night, but why speak of such things?”

He gives her a shrug, looks out the window until she speaks again.

“Maybe because I want to know,” she says.

Swiveling to face her again, he bites at the inside of his cheek until the question breaks free -

“Why?”

Quick to respond, she says, “Maybe because I care?”

She says it so easy that Killian feels extremely warm, and he knows it’s not because of the car heating.

“Of course you do, Emma.” He swallows, and says, “And I know it seems like I’m avoiding it, that I am, but I just -”

He pauses to rake his hand through his hair.

Later, he’ll tell her, but now?

“I’ll tell you what works for me, when I’m angry and rugby can’t alleviate it.”

She doesn’t voice an argument, so he says, “I used to write a lot. I mean, I still do, but I used to write all the time. My thoughts, my - now, don’t laugh - my hopes and dreams. Sometimes that would just mean writing journals. Other times, I’d actually write a story or two. But after my brother died, I kind of lost touch with that in all the ensuing chaos.”

He sighs.

“But I started writing again a little while ago. I didn’t much _like_ what I was writing, but last night? I couldn’t sleep so I wrote and it turned out fairly well. I think this is something I could actually finish, Emma.”

Perhaps he said too much, and that’s why she’s so silent and he can’t read the expression on her face.

Perhaps -

“I gave up drawing.”

She glances at him after her admission, a testing look. He nods at her because he doesn’t want to startle her by touching her while she’s driving, and it’s enough for her to know that he wants to hear.

“Tenth grade wasn’t so great for me, and I just lost interest. Sometimes I wish I could pick it back up again. I mean, I wasn’t that talented but it used to make me happy.”

“That’s all that matters, Emma. You should do what makes you happy.” He’s sincere up until that moment, just long enough to see her soft smile, and then, nearly laughing already, he adds ”Even if it’s a stick figured attempt at art.”

She punches at him with her free hand, but misses, so he laughs even harder and presses himself against the window, as out of reach as possible.

Emma reaches for him again, but he’s too far away for her to get at him. Giving up, she says, “I can do _better_ than stick figures.”

“I’ll have to see it to believe that,” he says.

“We can trade. You give me your awful story and I’ll give you my awful drawing.”

“It’s a promise, Lady Swan.”

He stretches his arms above his head, yawning. It isn’t necessary to fill the silence because it’s a comfortable one. He reins his talkative side in so he can hold onto this moment as long as it lasts because it’s a damned good one.

He glances out the window, watching the swerving truck finally take the exit off the highway and for a second his head empties of everything except the sound of Emma’s tapping fingers and the sight of his own breath fogging up the window.

( _That_ would make an excellent line in his story.)

“Tell me something, Killian,” Emma says.

“Shall I start with my major weaknesses and work my way down to the minor, or shall we go bottom’s up?”

“Wait - what?”

“Ruby’s orders,” he reminds her.

He jolts, nearly knocking his head against the window when she giggles.

(He doesn’t think any apology will cover how he stares at her now.)

“Start anywhere you want,” she says.

“Bottom’s up,” Killian decides aloud.

Canting her head to the ceiling, in a mockery of his accent that’s so awful that he’s caught somewhere between offense and endless amusement, she says, “I’ll drink to that.”

He’ll drink to that, too, fill his glass with the double dimples in her cheeks, top it with her giggles, and drink her all in, her happiness burning him up as the sweetest of liquors.

He drinks her in…

“Apology accepted,” Emma says before the words even leave his mouth.

Her cheeks go red, and Killian drinks that in, too, licks at his lips like he can taste the color’s heat.

She taps at the wheel, shifting lanes.

“So, what’s your kryptonite, Killian Jones?” she asks.

He glances up at the mirror and catches a glimpse of green. He winks, the green flashes away, and he digs his hands into his pockets, the heaviness of intoxication weighing his words -

“You tell me.”

-

He doesn’t give her much to go off of.

Like - how the hell is she supposed to be destroying him by his admission of a “goat’s milk” allergy? All she can do with that is try to keep herself from laughing hard enough to drive them both off the highway.

Sure, maybe she could use his hatred of Peter Pan against him and blast “Following the Leader” on the radio for the duration of the trip, but, with the exception of Nana the dog, she hates that movie, too.

Or she could just sabotage the sleep he’s falling into again and just smile in his direction. It may not be on his very detailed list, but it seemed to be working before. There’s no other reason he would’ve stopped mid complimenting himself to stare at her besides the smile that split her face despite her best efforts not to give him the satisfaction of (visibly) enjoying his tale of rugby glory.

But she doesn’t work herself up to another smile until he’s face flat to the window glass, asleep, _because_ \- Emma has no idea what she’s doing.

To be exact, she has no idea what the _fuck_ she’s doing.

To be really (fucking) exact, to honestly analyze her actions and describe the whats and the whys (the where, when, hows obvious), Emma must be listening to her father and, by proxy, her mother and letting hope catch or whatever it means to ignore the worries in her head and focus on what she’s feeling instead.

(Leap of faith? Emma’s heard that mentioned once or twice.)

She isn’t going to lie. It helps that her and Killian are completely alone, nothing save for their cell phones tethering them to their “real” lives.

(But this is her real life too, this secret between them, and there’s bound to come a point where she stops accepting it for what it is and does something about it, right?)

(Right?)

There’s some kind of needle in the haystack here, the prick of its point just waiting to pop their little bubble, and Emma knows if she keeps digging through the hay, if she keeps throwing glances in his direction and thinking of _them_ , then she’s bound to cut her fingers on it.

She can already feel the blood welling up, pounding loudly in her ears in the silence of the car as they get closer to their destination. It’s a quarter to 10, they’re twenty minutes out, and good, they’ll make it just in time for an early tour and possibly an interview with admissions if they don’t close up shop early, and then another four hours back, another four hours spent with him beside her, telling her stories of him and his brother, of attempting to braid his mother’s curled hair and losing his fingers in it - and pulling stories out of her, too.

Emma told him about her diary collection, the ones lining Ruby’s bookshelf, in chronological order just as Ruby said. It felt nice to hear Killian laugh about that and tossing aside his threat of breaking in and reading through all of them with a, “Forget Ruby. Granny will end you,” felt even better.

Now it just makes her stomach jump. It’s probably a good thing she skipped breakfast and left that donut to cool in the confines of his backpack.

“Take Exit 36A,” the GPS says, and Emma flees to the safety of its orders.

The GPS tells her to make a turn, so Emma makes it. The GPS tells her to go straight for three miles, so Emma does it. The GPS doesn’t want her to think - _don’t think_ , just _do._

Emma does.

She drives and she doesn’t think, just keep both hands on the wheel while she rolls up to campus gates. Killian lurches into consciousness at exactly the right moment, just in time to show his ID and sign the visitor form at the gate.

As they’re pulling past the gates and being directed towards the campus parking lot, he says, “We’re here.”

“Nice of you to notice.”

She grits her teeth to keep from screaming, or snapping, or just freaking the fuck out about everything. That kind of teeth grinding should make parking difficult but she manages it in one smooth turn of the wheel.

“I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep. Sorry about that, Lady Swan,” he says.

She clicks her tongue, and says, “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, Emma.”

Killian leans forward in his seat, looking out onto the campus. Emma glances in the same direction.

It looks just as the pictures painted it, and just as Tink described it, complete with the students walking around in their pajamas. There’s a girl on a bench in front of the fittingly named Castle Hall reading on her tablet in baby blue pajamas with little ducklings painted on them.

“Bet you’d look lovely in those,” Killian says to Emma.

She doesn’t let him catch her eyes, knowing she’s being unfair when she doesn’t acknowledge him. The bubble is stretching at the edges, ready to burst, and Emma’s moments away from finding the needle to do them in. This is what she gets for focusing on her feelings. Those things always seem to get tangled and throw her completely off course.

She turns off the engine. Laying her hands back on the wheel, she admits, “I'm nervous.”

(About what you ask? Oh, _everything_.)

“Don’t be.”

He so casual about it that Emma has to scoff.

“Yes, that’s so helpful, Killian. Say it again, so I can get the full effect.”

He responds in kind, whistles between his teeth and moves in so he can place both hands on top of hers. She turns to him, mouth already open to issue the threat building in her tensed arms, but he pulls her away from the wheel and drags her closer to him, her hands nearly pulled up to his chest.

“Fine, Swan, you’re nervous. I get it. You’re scared of the infinite number of things that can go wrong,” he says.

“I am,” she bites out, mad at the truth of it all.

His tone softens, but he’s no less firm in his words when he says, “So, move past that. You can do that, I know you can.”

“How do you know that?” Emma asks.

There’s no heat behind her scoff this time. Openly curious, she stares at him, looking for the truth in his words before he even says, “Because I know you.”

Emma’s hands relax of their own accord, fingers unfolding from their fists and dropping towards his hands.  His grip relaxes, too - there must be something in her face because as his eyes move over her, his expression brightens.

(And the needle? It gets lost in the hay.)

The smart response doesn’t occur to her until after he lets her hands go and turns to the door to get out. _So you like to think_ , she could say, but he speaks first, stealing the words from her mouth.

“Or so I like to think, because I really want to. Maybe I will risk Granny’s displeasure and steal those diaries.”

“You could just ask,” she mumbles.

“I could do that, too. Tell me something, Emma.”

It’s the nicest way anyone has ever thrown her words back in her face, and Emma grins and unfastens her seatbelt while she says, “We’re going to miss the tour if we don’t get moving.”

She hears his sigh as he pops open the door, and he’s still sighing, overdramatizing his disappointment when he opens the back to grab their backpacks.

Emma joins him at the front of the car after she’s made sure everything is turned off and locked and her keys are safely stuffed into the pocket of her jacket.  She rubs her hands together; it’s a little cold. He frowns down at her, but lets her take her bag without protest.

“Castle Hall is Admissions, if I remember correctly,” Killian says. He waves her before him. “Shall we depart?”

She nods and walks towards the large _castle_ -like building, her eyes moving over the students. The girl with the duckling patterned pajamas is still messing around on her tablet, legs now curled beneath her like she’s headed for bed instead.

“Hey,” she says, drawing Killian’s attention. “You’re right, I do look great in those.”

“In…?”

He looks in the direction of the girl, brow raising with interest.

“I already own a pair. In blue and pink,” she says.

He shakes his head, laughing silently. He says, “I should’ve known.”

“Now you do,” Emma says.

“Aye, now I do,” he says and pulls open the door to wave her inside.

The entrance to the hall is large, ornate, and surprisingly empty. Emma takes a look around at all the paintings on the walls and pictures of graduating classes and is overwhelmed for a bit until she looks over at Killian to see the same look of “what the hell?” plastered on his face.

She relaxes and steps forward, towards the front counter helpfully labeled ‘Admissions,’ and the white-haired, older woman standing before it. The woman makes an attempt to grab all of the twenty something clipboards on the countertop. Knowing how well that ends from the amount of times she’s done the same while volunteering with her mother, Emma walks over and says, “Need a hand?”

“Yes, thank you,” the woman says cheerily. “Prospective students’ weekends are always so busy for us that no one has time to clear the questionnaire clipboards except me.”

Both Emma and Killian follow the woman around the counter and dump the clipboards in the box she (very unceremoniously) dumps hers in.

When she straightens and gets a look at them, she claps a hand to her mouth, shaking her head at herself like she’s done this a million times before.

“Ah, you’re prospective students, too, aren’t you?” she asks, starting to walk back the way they came.

“Yeah,” Emma confirms, following her back from around the counter. “We came here for a tour?”

“Oh! All the 11 o’clock tours have left already. There won’t be another until a guide returns, probably around 12. In the meantime, are you looking at a department in particular?”

“Uh -” Emma starts.

Killian cuts off her follow up “um,” and says, “Actually, I was hoping to meet with the rugby coach.”

“Ooh, interested in the team, are you?”

Her gaze is hawk-like assessing as she looks over Killian. Emma’s never seen _anyone_ look at him so carefully, at least not anyone who wasn’t _interested_ in him in other ways -

She swallows at the thought.

“Yes,” he says, stepping back a little and shooting Emma a look.

“Well, he won’t be back on campus until tomorrow morning. I can set you up for a meeting then,” the woman says.

Killian sighs and falters into silence, so Emma says, “We won’t be here, then. We only drove up for today.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay? This _is_ a prospective students’ weekend, after all. I can scrounge up some students willing to take you in if you really want to see the coach,” the woman says.

Emma jumps on the offer immediately and says, “I’m going to check in and see if it’s okay. But you’d really be able to do that?”

Killian’s the one who is all uhs and ums this time, as the woman replies, “Yes, of course. You’d each have your own host since we won’t put you up in a co-ed room, and they’d be able to give you the tour around the campus that our tour guides don’t cover.” She leans into them like she’s whispering a secret, smiling while she says, “That’s usually prospective students’ favorite part of the weekend, seeing all the little hidden gems our school has to offer.”

“That sounds really great,” Emma says.

“Plus,” the woman adds with a brighter grin, “You’d get to enjoy lunch, dinner, and breakfast here. That’s my favorite part of our school besides the professors. You could also check out a class tomorrow if you like. We have a few in the morning in our more…esoteric departments. They’re the only departments that can draw full classes on a Saturday. CSE 111 can’t pull that.”

“Esoteric?” Killian asks.

“Herbology is only offered on Saturdays, for one.”

Emma looks at Killian warningly, and even though he valiantly keeps his face straight for that one, he doesn’t resist asking, “And Defense against the Dark Arts? Emma would love to attend that one.”

Emma would _love_ to elbow him right in the jaw.

“Professor Merlin offers that on Saturdays, too,” the woman says, winking at Emma. “But here we call it Intro to Behavioral Analysis.”

“Professor _Merlin_?” Killian says.

“Merriman Lyon - but Merlin for short. His own idea of a joke. It _should_ be a joke, but the way the students say it… A name like that commands authority in fantasy and real life,” she says.

Emma nods instead of dropping an ‘um’ at the sigh in the woman’s voice. After a moment, the woman claps her hands together and says, “So, let me check to see which students we can set you up with and you can check to see whether staying will work for you.”

“Alright,” Emma says and walks towards the bench underneath the picture of last year’s graduating class.

Killian drops down onto it first, while Emma digs into her back pocket to grab her phone. Once settled on the bench, she says, “I’ll call my mom.”

He looks like he has something to say, brows dipped together in thought, but Emma lifts a hand, so he keeps it to himself for the moment.

“Hey, Mom,” Emma says when the call connects.

Her mom immediately jumps into excitability, and exclaims, “Emma? Is everything alright? Are you there yet?”

“It’s me, yes. Everything’s fine, and we just got here. Turns out we missed the tour.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sure there’ll be another,” her mother says, sounding truly heartbroken.

Killian must hear her, too, because he pulls a face like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yeah. But that’s not why I’m calling. You know how we were hoping to see the rugby coach?”

Killian raises an eyebrow, mouthing, ‘We?’

‘You, whatever,’ Emma mouths back.

“Yes,” her mother says.

“Well, Killian can’t talk to the coach until tomorrow, but luckily - well, luckily depending on what you say - they’re having a prospective student’s weekend and they have space for the both of us.”

“The _both_ of you?” Her mom asks.

Emma blanks at the stress in her mom’s tone until Killian nudges her and mouths ‘separate dorms.’ Emma stammers out, “There’s a female student willing to take me in, and a male one for him. So, we’ll get to see the dorms, experience a whole day on campus, and even catch a Saturday class.”

Killian’s eyes widen and he shakes his head rapidly. He doesn’t have to mouth the ‘No’ but he does so anyway. Just so she knows because she just _wasn’t_ getting it.

As if taking a class with _Merlin_ is a completely ridiculous idea.

“You’re never going to make it to a Saturday class, Emma,” her mother says.

Killian’s grin goes supernova, wide and wild, and his thumbs up nearly makes her drop the phone. Emma bites back her laugh with some difficulty. ‘Some’ meaning, a hell of a lot of difficulty when he mimics her mother, facial expressions nearly spot on for what she probably looked like while saying it.

“I -” Emma isn’t going to say that she _knows_ she’s going to make it to the class because it’s after _herbology_ and the professor’s name is Merlin because it’ll just make him right.

(It _is_ completely ridiculous.)

“I was just trying to make the idea more appealing to you,” Emma settles on.

It’s close enough to the truth.

“I’m going to put a call into Admissions and I’ll let you know, Emma,” her mother says.

“You’re amazing _and_ beautiful,” Emma says.

There’s a happy pop to her mother’s words when she says, “I _am_ , and I’m calling them right now, Emma, so you and Killian don’t stray too far.”

“Okay. Talk to you in a few. Love you,” Emma says and hangs up the phone.

She taps her phone screen. Her phone blinks green. Ruby sent her a text, but Emma doesn’t feel like opening it just yet. She turns to Killian instead.

“Don’t you need to call your guardian?” she asks.

Killian shrugs. “Ratched won’t say no. We should just wait on your mom’s answer until I bother her unnecessarily.”

“As long as everything holds up, she isn’t going to say no, either. She’ll want you to meet the coach. Securing your future will make her weekend,” Emma says.

“And my weekend’s already been made, so why shouldn’t hers be, too?” Killian says.

He extends his hand for her to take. She breathes and doesn’t think, just grabs it. His rings are cold on her palm, but his palm is warm enough to cut the feeling. Still, a small tremor takes her, but it takes him, too, so at least she’s free of his teasing.

“It’s cold in here, don’t you think?” Killian says.

“Yeah,” Emma says.

Sliding closer to him on the bench, she doesn’t stop until they’re pressed side to side, and still holding his hand, she leans into him.

“Cold,” she murmurs.

It’s an awful excuse.

“Yeah,” Killian says and adjusts himself so that she’s leaning easier.

It’s an awful excuse, but they both go with it because it’s not awful at all to rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes to the admissions office around her. It’s comfortable and comforting - and she feels like she’s still searching through that haystack, thinking about them too much when she’s so close to him and she can think of nothing else _but_ that, but it doesn’t feel like there’s a needle on the verge of popping their bubble.

(It doesn’t feel like there’s a bubble around them at all, and she can fall asleep in all this hay, just as well as she’s falling asleep on him.)

She _is_ half asleep when Killian says, “Thanks for this. You know, I wouldn’t have had the chance if not for you.”

Emma doesn’t open her eyes, but she does smile, only aware in the sense that she feels light and warm and -

“Happy to have helped.”

-

They don’t get to the tour until 1PM because the tour guides break for lunch, but they spend it alright, Emma dozing on him while the Admissions woman, Emily, interrogates him about his scoring history, his losses and wins, his exercise regimen _and_ his weight. It’s not a bad way to kill two hours. He can handle the interrogation just fine with Emma leaning against him while she sleepily devours her grilled cheese.

“Ah, my granddaughter’s here. She’ll take you in, Emma,” Emily says.

As Emma wakes herself fully, Emily waves over a dark-haired girl. The girl walks over to them excitedly, but she looks confused when Emily says, “DG, Emma’s going to stay with you this evening.”

“But where’s she going to sleep? I have the Oz-scape to finish and I already have Gwen sleeping in my bed -”

“I shall share if she’s willing to,” Gwen says, walking over to them.

Killian looks to Emma who nods. “Yeah, sure, that’s fine.”

He feels like he should probably be the one to apologize for putting Emma out, but she turns to smile at him and he knows that she wouldn’t accept his apology. So, it’ll lay on the tip of his tongue, something he’ll hide behind his eyes every time he looks at her, replace it with his gratefulness instead.

(She didn’t have to stay, but she did.)

(It’s more than he would ever think to ask of her.)

“Does he need a host, too?” DG asks, looking at Killian.

“Yes,” Emily says. “Do you think Walsh is up for it?”

“Magic Man’s up for anything if there’s a profit in it,” DG scoffs. Waving at Killian’s everything, she says, “His face will earn a pretty penny.”

“DG,” her grandmother warns.

“Or maybe more than that,” Emma says snidely.

Killian feels rather attacked.

“I’m honored that you lovely ladies find me so fetching, but I can’t be bought,” he says.

“That’s a pity. We could’ve stuck you in a kissing booth and made a fortune,” a voice says, having them all turning to look at him.

He has glitter on his cheeks like Tink’s Fairy Dust mist spray. Magic Man, indeed.

“That sounds rather hard on the mouth, mate,” Killian says.

Emily waves a hand before them, looking positively scandalized. Gwen’s expression isn’t much better, although it’s a touch more curiously horrified.

“Is this the way we want to entice prospective students? By threatening to prostitute them?” Emily says, quietly enough that the other students milling about can’t hear.

“Sorry,” DG says, actually sounding apologetic whereas Walsh on the other hand merely shrugs and says, “I can be more enticing.”

“I apologize for them both,” Emily says.

“It’s alright. Will either of you be leading us on this tour?” Emma asks.

“DG and Walsh will accompany you, but it’s Lance who’ll be leading the tour,” Emily nods in the direction of the dark-skinned student that Killian recognizes as part of the MMU rugby team, and when he catches Emily’s gaze, he nods politely before skimming his eyes over the rest of them.

They linger on Gwen. Killian knows that look. Killian wears that look more often than not.

“Lance will give an excellent tour. He knows this school better than anyone,” Gwen assures them.

“You’ve been on this tour before then?” Killian says, studying her.

If Lance looks at Gwen the way Killian looks at Emma, then perhaps…

Gwen nods. “I’ve been on it many times, but this is my first official tour. I was lucky enough to have Lance as my own personal tour guide.” She smiles softly. “He trusts my opinion on these matters because I can spot a weakness.”

“And what’s his?”

“Forgetting the names of the department heads,” Gwen says very quietly.

Emma giggles, and Killian misses the look on Gwen’s face when she turns back to Lance because he’s too busy looking at Emma. She tucks her hair behind her ear and turns to face him.

“We should join the group then. Make sure we get a good spot,” Emma says.

“Yes, we should,” Gwen agrees.

Emma jumps to her feet, so Killian follows her lead. After saying their goodbyes to Emily, they push their way (politely) through the group of other high schoolers until they reach the front, which is perhaps not the best thing to do because Lance is immediately distracted.

_Pull it together,_ Killian thinks. Whether that thought is directed at Lance or himself is to be determined.

“Hello,” Gwen says.

“Hey, I didn’t know that you were going to take my tour again. I thought you’d bless another guide with your presence for once,” Lance says.

Gwen’s smile is small, but not secret. Killian _knows_ secret smiles.

“And what shall you do if I am not there to remind you of Professor Kay?” Gwen says

“Wish you were there as I embarrass myself, of course.”

Gwen pinks, so Killian says, “You’re on the rugby team, right?”

“You’re interested?”

Lance sizes him up and then nods, and says, “So you’ll be here to talk to Coach Sims tomorrow. Good, he likes to meet prospectives in person.”

“Like you?” Killian asks.

Lance nods, smiling like Killian’s just passed some kind of test.

“Like me,” he confirms.

A beat later, he raises his hands and says, “Welcome to Middlemist University. If you’ll all follow me…”

-

“Is he…?”

The dot, dot, dots take over Emma’s mind as she loses her tongue.

Is he _what_?

That’s a question with a billion answers and very few of them easy to voice, especially when she knows exactly what Walsh is asking - and if Emma had an answer to that, she’d have given it during the billion moments that led up to this one.

When they were on the tour and Walsh tugged her into a discussion of just exactly _how_ to get Killian to agree to selling himself for the cause of lining Walsh’s pockets, or when DG abandoned them mid-tour to go paint _Oz_ and Gwen and Killian started up a conversation about rugby that neither Emma or Walsh could follow so she ended up stealing glances at Killian while Walsh stared at her.

Perhaps she would’ve been able to answer it during their dinner when Killian casually mentioned SSSSSS, Walsh asked her so many follow-up questions, and Killian stared while Emma answered every single one.

(Even the one about anal beads. _Fucking anal beads._ )

And maybe she would’ve been able to answer it when Walsh took her under his arm at this pre-Halloween Party Celebration Party, or as Walsh called it, “an excuse to introduce prospective students to the MMU party life.”

Is he _what_?

She gapes, blushes, and runs through all the responses to that in under a millisecond so she ends up with a mish mashed jumble of words and nothing even approaching a reply.

Because she doesn’t have an answer for how much she wanted to grab Killian’s hand and tell Walsh that he should sell touches separate because Killian’s really good with his hands. Nor does she have one for how curious she actually finds herself about the ins and outs of this sport she really didn’t care much about until…

And she _really_ doesn’t have an answer to why she felt safe enough to answer Walsh’s questions when Killian was sitting right there, something she wouldn’t have been able to do if he wasn’t.

But the answer that’s completely lost to her is how much it stabbed at her to leave Killian’s side and spend this past hour with Walsh instead.

“I’ll take that as an ‘It’s complicated,’” Walsh says. His smile trembles at the edges when he looks back over in Killian’s direction. “That look he gave me is as uncomplicated as it gets, though. He hates me.”

Emma finally finds her tongue, and oh, look, it was there in her mouth all along. Quickly, she says, “He has no reason to.”

Walsh smiles down at her, but there’s a twist to the smile that makes Emma falter. He’s maybe a bit more door-to-door salesman than magic man, but he’s nice, funny, and genuine in his desire to sell Killian to the highest bidder.

“So, this isn’t the beginning of our beautiful romance, I take it?” he asks.

Emma shrugs. “Sorry,” she says.

“No need to be. I like you, Emma, and you must tolerate me because you’ve let me steal you for most of this day and evening. I’m happy with that. Are you?”

Emma looks back in the direction Killian disappeared in. She has an answer to this one - longing, that must be that feeling aching in her chest, and she knows she’s _fine_ with this, but she’d be _happy_ somewhere else.

Walsh taps her on the shoulder, grinning again.

“The evening’s not done yet,” he says.

She hasn’t known him long enough to decipher all the tiny expressions that flit across his face, but she knows mischief when she sees it.

“Whatever you’re thinking…”

“He’s thinking, too.” He sighs dramatically, that same mischief twinkling like the green and gold glitter on his cheeks, and elaborates, “That is if he’s thinking about you. Is he?”

She doesn’t think before she responds, “Yes,” but if she had thought, it would’ve been the same answer.

He’s thinking about her, she’s thinking about him.

(What a pair, what a pair.)

“Can I buy you another drink?” Walsh asks.

The jump in topics completely flies over her head.

“What? The drinks are free.”

Emma snorts, but follows him to the kitchenette.  She isn’t easy to trust and she isn’t _so_ drunk that it seems like a good idea to take a drink from the pitcher on the counter. The prepackaged jello shots, however, are a safe(r) option, and she grabs two, one for her and one for Walsh.

She turns back to him to see his mischievous look replaced with puppy-like heartbreak ( _literally_ ; the puppies in the shelter give her that look every time she forgets to give them a belly rub) and Emma would rather see him shitfaced than to keep giving her that look, so she stuffs the jello shot in his hand and says, “Drink up.”

She does the same. The shot is stronger than any she’s ever had, less jello than it is shot.

Walsh nods his head at her and says, “Now that I have a little magic in my veins, ask me, Emma Swan.”

“Ask you what?” she says.

“The question burning on the tip of your tongue,” Walsh says.

Emma doesn’t have one -

Wait, yes she does.

“Did you see what direction he walked in?” Emma asks.

“Back towards the stairs,” Walsh says.

“I’m going to find him,” Emma says.

“I think that answers _my_ question,” Walsh says.

Emma doesn’t think it does, but whatever, she’s approaching drunk now, that jello shot settling right above the rum and coke she poured for herself - while Killian and Lance talked about Coach Sims, “something of a lion,” she remembers Lance saying and Killian laughing, Killian looking at her, his fingers stilling their tapping on the counter, hand almost moving towards her… 

“That seems like an excellent idea. We wouldn’t want him to get lost and end up sleeping outside,” Walsh says.

Emma grins at the joke in his tone. At least the shot went right through him because he doesn’t look so moony eyed anymore. Glassy-eyed, yes, but he shoos Emma away and says, “Since you’ve made a monkey of me, I want nothing to do with you.”

He’s lying, but Emma isn’t when she says, “That’s fine by me.”

She’s in that stage of drunkenness where brutal honesty takes hold. So either she skipped stupidity and levitation, or she’s going backwards this evening, because she’s already left stage four behind.

“Swan away,” he says.

“Swan out,” Emma replies, and levitates her ass through the crowd before stupidity can take her - before she thinks it’s a good idea to jump into Killian’s arms the moment she sees him.

And well, maybe that _does_ answer Walsh’s question.

(Is he _what_?)

(Is he the one that she wants?)

(Yeah. Yeah, he is.)

-

He finds a darkened corner.

He places himself in it.

It’s a good place to be with just him and his solo cup, far out of the way of the drunks and the students pretending to be so.

It’s a lonely place to be, but he’s perfectly okay with that because it isn’t as if he’s alone with his own thoughts. The drink of who knows what (it burns like a million different things) drowns that out - drowns out everything but the important things -

_Emma_.

Sinking to the floor would be a good idea at this point, but he’s not yet drunk enough for that, so he’ll have no excuse if he never gets back up.

Instead he closes his eyes and leans back against the wall enough that if he does give into the newfound desire to lay out on the floor, it’ll be an easy trip down the wall into a seated position. He might not even break anything going down.

He stiffens after a moment, shaking his head at himself. This is the coward’s way out, disappearing out here just to avoid seeing Emma spend time with Walsh. Worse than the way it makes Killian feel weak is that he allows himself to be that way - but he can't do anything else, ruin Emma’s good time just because he’s jealous that good time is with some other guy…

One she’d probably have no trouble telling Ruby about. It might take some coaxing, but it wouldn’t be a secret to have her running off every time it might come out. After all, Ruby’s never hated Walsh.

Killian downs the rest of his drink, staring morosely into the empty cup.

A shadow falls over him and he looks up, and how appropriate that it should be Emma’s when he -

“Was just thinking about you,” he says.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

He stares at her and then looks back at his empty cup.

“You’re a little drunk, aren’t you?” Emma asks him.

“How do you figure that one?” he asks.

He barely has a chance to place his empty cup on the floor before she’s stumbling purposefully into his arms. He reaches out to keep her from falling, but gets ‘swaying on his own feet, her mouth on his’ distracted.

Which, of course, is the kind of distracted that is instantly consuming, and _all_ -consuming at that.

Emma skims her nose over his, and as she lifts onto her toes to part his lips with her tongue, her shirt rises up to bunch beneath his hands. He splays his hands out, catching on the skin of her narrow waist - her breath _catches_ , a little hitching sound he hears in between the beat rising and dropping in whatever music is playing out over the speakers.

Slowly, she swipes her tongue over his bottom lip, and he’s gone for her and her chuckle, a jagged sound that he’s never heard from her, gone for the way she kisses him lightly and pulls back again to say, “I taste it on you. You’re _very_ drunk, Killian Jones.”

He breathes very carefully lest he forget how to do so in the few beats between her words and his reply, where he simply stares at her, and either he’s hazy-eyed _or_ she really is surrounded in a smoke that dulls everything but her.

“Yeah, I suppose I am.”

She shifts, hands sliding up over his stomach, but before he can adjust to the shiver running up his spine, she moves over and off him, placing her hands against the wall so he’s happily caged in by her arms.

“Mmm,” she moans, leaning her head back to look at him.

She’s drunk, too, certainly, her green eyes shining in the dark, and it’s no wonder that she is when she had two drinks. He only had the one drink and his head is spinning. Yes, it’s spinning because of Emma, too, but that’s a different kind of circuit, one that careens off the tracks - wasn’t he lamenting her absence only moments before? Wasn’t he? - And yet always finds its way back to her, as she’s found her way back to him.

He squeezes her waist. He’s going to let her go and find their hosts so they can get their drunk selves safely beneath the sheets, but - off the tracks he goes when she edges closer, spreading her stance to accommodate him.

How polite of her.

“Can you taste it on me?” she asks.

He gives himself over to the laugh that takes him when she pouts her lips - and gives himself over to her, leaning forward to gently kiss her, darting his tongue inside the part of her lips. He doesn’t taste any liquor -

But he _does_ taste her.

He sighs, casting his head back and looking towards the ceiling for support when he says, “Yes, I can.”

“Liar,” Emma says, her words drawing his eyes back down.

Somehow or another, until now he didn’t notice the way her shirt cuts the perfect view of her breasts and its constellation of freckles. His jaw tics, and his cock jumps - it’s insanity pure and simple that has him responding, surely.

“And just what am I lying about?” he asks.

“Everything.” She shakes her head. “ _I’m_ lying,” Emma says.

She’s not drunk enough to not be making any sense, but he can’t capture a thread of understanding in her words until she says, “I don’t taste anything. Just you.”

He understands even better when she pushes into his embrace and kisses him again. This isn’t about them being drunk; this is about her _wanting_ him. She was lying, looking for an excuse to do this.

Sinking down on the floor seems like a much better idea when Emma’s mouth is moving over his.

He lets her lead him in the kiss, but when she starts to tremble and he can hear her nails scrabbling at the walls, trying to keep her grip, he tightens his hands around her waist and carefully pushes forward so that he can keep swallowing her breaths as he leads them in a circle until it’s her back to the wall and his hands folded beneath her.

He slides them down from her waist, grips her hips, moves lower to curve beneath her butt. The jeans hug her tight, but not the way he does - Killian’s hyper aware of Emma’s thighs and how easy it would be to place himself between them.

Her hands move to his shoulders, her nails finding a grip in those muscles. Pulling him closer, she gives him the perfect opportunity to settle into her space, and he drags himself away from her lips just for the second he needs to lift her up and make the fit perfect. Killian grinds against her mindlessly, awareness drifting away and replaced with a desperate keening.

Emma makes a noise when he tries to resume the kiss, nudging at his bottom lip, but not quite kissing him. He tries his damnedest to correct that, but she digs her heels into the back of his thighs and rolls her hips, so his focus dips lower to where he’s so hard and _desperate_.

“Killian, you should -”

She doesn’t finish the thought, instead rocking against him in little, stressed motions. Killian _should_ do so much, beginning with stopping this because coming in his pants is exactly what he shouldn’t and doesn’t want to do.

Killian shouldn’t be thinking about sinking to the floor, sinking _other_ places - but he does, he thinks about how her mouth felt on him, hot and wet and _eager_ , and worst of all, how he sank his tongue and his finger into her and wanted nothing more than to flip her and sink his cock there, too.

He rocks with her and just imagines what that would feel like, whether she’d part for him just as easily as she’s done for his fingers, for his tongue, whether he’d even make it past that tight clutch before he lost himself.

Her body goes rigid beneath him, her nails trying to break skin and the rotation of her hips becomes jerky, half-aborted movements.

Killian loosens his grip on her and she starts to fall.

(Appropriate. He’s falling, too.)

“What are you doing?” Emma asks.

Her eyes widen from the loss, confusion taking the corners of her mouth and turning them down.

“I want to feel you when you come,” he says, a simple enough answer to gloss over just _how_ he wants to feel her.

It’s not something he can have.

“You could feel me just fine like that. I was so...”

Her expression drops even further. She draws her hands back from his shoulders, which makes it easier for him to pull her close enough to spin around. She throws her hands out and catches the wall to keep from falling.

“What the hell, Killian?”

“It’s easier this way,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Explain, please,” she begs.

With her own hands bracing her against the wall, he can wrap both arms around her waist and start at the zip of her jeans.

“ _Oh._ Are you seriously going to?” she asks.

He leans in, kissing the tip of her ear, and mimics the breathless lilt of her voice, asking, “Do _you_ seriously want me to?”

She wiggles her hips when Killian rests his hands on her waistband, and it is all invitation, but he wants, nay, _needs_ to hear her say it.

(Needs to hear her want him.)

And Emma, as always, doesn’t disappoint. With a barely suppressed sigh, she says, “Please, Killian, I want you to,” and then it’s all on him, _she’s_ all on him, not just her jean clad bottom pushing against him, joining them as best as they can be when they’re both (fortunately) fully clothed but bearing down on him with her stuttered gasp when he traces the skin right above her waistband.

“ _Please_ , take your time,” she groans, her sarcasm cut by the stutter in her words.

“Can’t do that. I want you too much,” he says, voice muffled by her hair because he’s found his way past his breaking point and into the crook of her neck, to his favorite spot when he can’t reach her lips - or every other inch of her - to that spot that always makes her make _that_ noise when he kisses it.

He noses aside the hair there until he can finally press his lips to skin and there it is - his favorite sound tearing from her throat, somewhere between a cry and a moan, and it’s too dark to see anything with his head buried in her shoulder, so he goes by touch alone, sliding his hand down her belly, his fingers nearly catching on her underwear before they slip underneath, through the soft blonde curls, her body sweat damp and making it easy for him to slide farther down, passing over her clit.

Emma gasps.

He repeats the motion.

The sound he draws from Emma’s throat this time is less a gasp than it is a search for words, and he finds a rhythm, driving his hand up and down, caressing her clit with his fingers.

He only allows a brief pause, a brief moment of relief for the both of them when he draws back and she takes advantage and turns her head, her nose bumping his chin as she searches for his mouth.

They kiss very, _very_ briefly, too because Emma breaks it to back into him further, practically crushing his cock against her ass. The pressure builds too high.

He’s going to come in his pants and she’s going to come on his fingers, and he can’t even rue that inevitability because he brought it on himself.

He starts slow circles over her clit with his palm, reaching deeper to curl his fingers against her soaked folds, but his touch goes awry when she shifts.

“This isn’t easier,” Emma hisses -

Or _he_ hisses because she snakes her hand behind her, between them, palming his cock.

He drags his hand out of her pants, starting wet trails over her belly, which shivers and indents with her shaky breaths. Pulling her against him, he somehow manages to turn her back to face him.

The flush to her cheeks is so pretty, but he can’t focus on that because her gaze is devastating. It’s a look that goes beyond the way she grabs for the front of his jeans and digs beneath to finally touch him. He jumps in her hand, but his gaze never strays, not even when he reaches for her, too, and quickly gets his hand back in position, his palm back over her clit and his fingers dancing over her wet folds.

He curls two fingers inside her, not realizing at first how easy she takes him because he’s too focused on looking at her, too focused on the pull of her hand on his cock, collecting moisture from his leaking tip to make stroking him within the confines of his jeans easier. Emma realizes immediately, gasps and flutters around his fingers, so tight that he _knows_ he wouldn’t get anywhere inside of her before spilling himself.

Killian’s already so close to that now.

“Talk to me,” Emma says.

“I -” He stutters. “Come for me, Emma. Please, sweetheart,” he begs her, his circles becoming rougher on her clit as he tries to push his fingers further, curl them deeper, a pale imitation of what he wants.

She shakes her head. “No, I want you to -” Her face twists up and her eyes, they flash in a familiar look, Emma fighting the tension threatening to take her whole, right before she says, “Come for _me_.”

Her hand strokes him, her fingers squeezing the tip, and in such tight quarters it should be difficult to give her what she wants, but not when she keeps looking at him, panting hard, silently mouthing “please.”

The pressure snaps and Killian jerks in her still stroking hand over and over as he rides out his orgasm on her fingers. He takes solace in the way her eyes flutter shut and she bears down on him, fucking herself past the point of no return.

“Killian,” she says aloud.

Vaguely, he realizes that he lied to himself because that’s his favorite sound, his name said by her. Not Captain, not asshole or jerk or any of her other colorful nicknames but _his_ name.

“Emma,” he pants.

She tugs her hand out of his pants and it stings a bit as the jeans press down on him, too sensitive for it just yet.

He keeps his hand pressed against her because he can’t even think about pulling out when she reaches up her hand to her face and stares at his come on her fingers.

“Please, Emma, don’t wipe that on me,” he begs.

“I’ve a better bad idea,” Emma says.

She touches her fingers to her mouth, licks one finger and then the other, trails her tongue over the come on her palm and when she’s done, when she’s wiping her spit wet hand on his shoulder, and he’s trying to bring himself back to reality because this surely isn’t it, she says, “You don’t taste awful.”

He blinks.

“I don’t…” he says.

“Was that a question?” Emma asks.

She giggles but he quickly swallows the sound, surging forward and backing her up against the wall again.

His fingers are still inside her, her jeans riding low enough on her hips that he only has to flick his wrist down to bare the skin of her upper thighs. Even with his cock softening in his jeans and the come her fingers didn't catch staining the inside of his boxers, he wants her, mess be damned.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Emma says when he pulls back for a breath - and he needs more than a breath, he needs a break, a moment to catch himself before his head goes.

“Was _that_ a question?” he asks, desperate.

The red flees from her cheeks.

“I mean -”

She grabs for his wrist, and he heeds the strain in her fingers, gently withdrawing.

“Emma -”

Emma chokes, her hand diving for her zipper, her gaze turned away from him. Instinctively, Killian steps in front of her, but Lance keeps his eyes averted anyway.

“Walsh wants to take you to Oz,” Lance says.

Killian nods. “Yeah, we’ll join you in a moment.”

“I'll come with you,” Emma announces, stepping around Killian.

And before Killian or Lance can voice a thing, she says, “Let’s not talk about this, right?”

Killian stares at her. She gives him a wide berth, her gaze fleeing his.

She keeps herself a foot away from Lance, too, so Killian hears it easily when Lance says, “Are you alright?”

And Emma may keep her voice quiet, but Killian still hears her reply.

“It was nothing, I'm fine.”

He gives himself more than a few moments to rejoin them, but no one seems to mind, not even Emma.

In fact, she’s just as bright and cheery as she was before, as if nothing had happened at all.

-

It really isn’t easy to pretend like she’s alright when Killian so obviously isn’t - and when she isn’t either.

Lance asked her if she was alright. Emma said she was fine.

Gwen stood outside the bathroom while Emma tried her best to clean herself up, and when Emma exited the stall, she asked her with the same concern, “Are you okay, Emma?”

“I’m fine.”

And when Killian asked the same, feet away from her because she kept hovering out of his space, she smiled at him without truly looking at him, and said the same.

“I’m fine,” said over and over again.

Emma is such a fucking liar.

She’s not fine because she’s lying, and she’s lying because she’s not fine.

And all she had to say was, “Killian is my…” but the words wouldn’t come. Instead she said “It was nothing,” and she lied and it’s not fine.

And pretending is so hard when it isn’t fine, but she keeps up the charade for everyone else’s benefit, laughing at the appropriate moments, joining in the conversation, looking at Oz as if she’s surprised by the art and the booths and the _magic_ of it all, when she’s seen it all before - the MMU student council could learn a thing or two from her mother.

She doesn’t realize when she pauses too long, but she does notice when she looks up and Gwen’s the only one there.

“Hey, sorry, let’s catch up with the others,” Emma says.

Gwen raises an arm. Emma stares before she recognizes it as an invitation to hug elbows. Marian does this from time to time. Even Ruby. She knows this elbow hug. This is the “I’m going to give you advice” elbow hug.

Emma gets straight to the point.

“Are you going to give me some kind of relationship advice?”

“I was actually going to ask you about your opinion of MMU. I really like it here, and it has a great selection of programs for someone like me,” Gwen says.

“Someone like you?”

“Someone who has no idea what she is doing. I’m very lost, Emma. There are very few things that I’m sure of,” Gwen says.

She sounds genuine, and not like she’s picking out Emma’s weakness like she said she was so good at - because that is definitely Emma’s weakness. Emma feels lost as hell.

“Um, yeah, same,” she says.

Gwen nods. “I know. Do you want to talk about it? Or tell me whether you’re going to apply here?”

“The second one. I think I am,” Emma says.

“Good, I’d like it if you came,” Gwen says.

“Why?” Emma asks, genuinely curious.

Gwen laughs. “Because I’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about the ins and outs of… ‘ins and outs.’”

“Oh, hell,” Emma says.

She slaps a hand over her face to cover the rest of the expletives threatening to come out.

“This is your legacy, Emma,” Gwen says, very stately, very dignified.

Emma _hates_ her.

But when Gwen grins and offers her elbow again, Emma takes it. She’s a little less lost when she thinks that if she doesn’t make it into MMU or any other school, at least she’ll have that to fall back on, her legacy of knowing the ‘ins and outs of ins and outs.’

By the time they make it back to the group, Gwen has her mother’s number and an actual interest in having a SSSSSS at her own school.

Killian has his back to her when she sees the photo booth.

It doesn’t register at first as more than a booth, not until Lance looks at Gwen shyly and says, “It’s actually working this time if you want to sit down for a photo with me.”

Killian turns at that, his gaze alighting on Gwen. Emma’s the one who avoids _his_ gaze usually, but he doesn’t look at her, instead turns back to Lance and Walsh and says, “The bathroom’s back that way, right?”

Walsh nods. “Don’t get lost or else you’re sleeping outside and I’ll find someone else to take your place.” He looks at them. “Volunteers?”

He _stares_ at Emma which -

“Yeah, I’ll be back,” Killian says.

Gwen slips her arm out from Emma’s and moves towards the photo booth. Lance takes her cue, and follows her inside.

Emma stares at their legs as they pull the curtain closed. It’s a really small space. They have to squeeze and Gwen’s are practically atop his.

It looks…

Emma looks away, back to Walsh.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” Walsh says.

“Like what?” Emma asks.

“Like you’re eager to hop in there with me? Those pictures don’t come for free.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

“Some would say that you can’t put a price on a moment like that, but then some would say that you can’t put a price on Killian’s face, and I did just that,” Walsh says.

His hint might as well have been an entire house dropped on her head. Emma gets it, she does, and she didn’t need his help to do so.

She was going to ask for the picture.

Is going to.

“I smell funnel cake,” Gwen announces as she steps out of the photo booth.

Lance wrinkles his nose and nods, arm coming up around Gwen’s shoulder. “Me too.”

Walsh leads the way, already following the smoke of the fryer and the smell of sugared dough.

“Emma, are you coming?”

Emma remembers when she once felt like she had a choice in this matter. All the Clash song in her head, _should I stay or should I go_ , flip of the coin decision on whether she wanted to be with him.

She still knows she _has_ a choice, but it’s one that she doesn’t feel the need to change. A choice she doesn’t _want_ to change. Emma glances back at the photo booth.

“I'll wait for Killian,” she says.

Gwen smiles, and Lance looks down at Gwen, smiling at her.

“Okay, I'll save you both some,” Walsh says.

Walsh is still drunk. She can tell from his knobby kneed walk. Emma however feels completely sober as she watches them disappear in the row of booths. She glances around her, stuffing her cold hands in her pockets and waiting for Killian.

She could hold his hand when he gets here. It’s always warm.

It takes forever for him to reappear, and when he does, he only allows a flash of surprise before he turns on the smirk and says, “Waiting for me, Swan?”

“Obviously,” she starts. Aware of the sarcasm, she takes a breath, brushes her hair back, and swallows down the defensiveness.

Nervousness be damned, she says quickly, “I was wondering if you might want to take a picture with me.”

She nods towards the photo booth and he glances back at it. His smirk fades.

“I can’t,” he says.

Emma tenses up. You’d think her heart would beat like this at the thought of asking him, after everything that happened tonight. You’d _think_ after everything that happened tonight that his answer would be an instant ‘Yes.’

You’d think that she could make things fine again by asking for a picture.

You’d think.

She’d think.

She doesn’t know what _to_ think.

“You can’t?” she asks.

“It's not that I'm against the picture in theory. As you very well know, I'm highly photogenic.” He shrugs then, crooked smile just off enough that Emma steels herself for impact. “It's just that I don’t see much point in taking a picture that's never going to see the light of day. Seems a bit of a waste.”

Emma nods furiously.

“You’re right. It is a waste.”

She turns her head away and finds her eyes wet when she blinks, wetter even when she keeps blinking to clear them from her view.

“It must be a cold day in hell to hear you tell me I'm right about something,” Killian says.

Emma’s fingers shake. She stuffs them in her pockets.

“Yeah, well, it’s chilly out here, too. I'm going to find the rest of them. I was promised funnel cake,” Emma says.

He reaches out for her. Even with her gaze downcast, she sees the move, which makes it easy for her to sidestep it.

His hands are probably as cold as hers.

“Follow the smoke and you’ll find us,” she says and moves farther out of range.

Someone brushes her shoulder, and then another someone steps around her and - Emma sees when it connects, when they both look at the couple laughing as they push their way into the photo booth and share the same thought.

_That could've been them._

Emma turns away and hopes she imagines the hopeless huff of breath because it sounds too much like her own bitter disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #7, 8, 9: Public, Hand jobs, riding


	9. ...I forgot all the rules my rabbi taught me in the old schul.

Getting up in the morning is difficult when you’re trying not to elbow your bed mate in the face, trip over your own backpack, or cry over an untaken picture.

Difficult, yeah, that covers it.

Emma makes it despite it all and looks fresh faced enough that she doesn’t even feel that hungover. It isn’t post alcohol regret that has her trudging quietly behind DG and Gwen, but some kind of misplaced melancholy because why should she feel sad about something she brought on herself?

That’s just plain stupid.

Emma feels a little stupid when DG drops them off at Professor Merlin’s class and Emma stumbles to the back instead of the front with Gwen. Everyone’s quiet in the small lecture hall, so she just waves at Gwen as she works her way through the last row. Lance is supposed to join them anyway, so Gwen won’t be alone for long, at least.

She takes the corner seat, pulls out a notebook from her backpack so she doesn’t look so out of place in the class, but has to stop herself just short of laying her head down on the desk. She feels exhausted mentally, physically, metaphysically, and every other type of exhausted one can feel.

And when Lance enters and greets Gwen, but approaches the back of the lecture hall instead of staying in the front with Gwen, Emma feels even more so.

She must look like she needs the company.

“Good morning,” Lance says quietly. “We have a little while until Merlin arrives. A wizard is never late and all that, but he often comes in his own time.”

Lord of the Rings reference. Emma’s torn between the nod of understanding and the memory of her feet on Killian’s ankle, of being snuggled beneath his arm and pressed to his side. Forcefully kicking away the memory, she puts her feet up on the back of the empty chair in front of her. Comfortable enough, she finally turns to look at Lance.

“Is this a class you take regularly?” she asks.

Lance looks at Emma and then glances at Gwen in the front left row, the glance turning into a lingering look, the look turning into something that Emma has never had. That long look of wanting that Emma has never allowed herself to have.

Never. Not with Killian. Not with -

( _That’s_ a thought she hasn’t had in so long that it feels unreal.)

(Killian’s ‘no’ feels unreal.)

Gwen turns around and her eyes widen (surprise, surprise) and then the _look_ becomes a look returned, a look shared.

(If Emma allowed herself to have it, would she have it?)

(If Killian had said yes, would she have had it right now?)

“No.” Lance says finally. He stares at Gwen as he says, “I just came here for you.”

Emma feels weird saying “thank you” when it’s so obviously not directed at her, when Gwen reads his lips and smiles before turning back towards the front.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says as he turns back to Emma.

Emma grins or at least tries to when she’s half sad, half jealous, and all confused.

Lance moves in and says, “It’s been awhile since her last visit and it’s the first time since we’ve actually been together. I wasn't originally at MMU. I was at the local college, on their team, but our Captain…”

“Gwen’s ex?” Emma supplies.

She’s seen enough teenage drama (movies, TV, Ruby, _herself_ ) to know where this is going.

“Yes,” Lance confirms.

Emma expects some shame or something to cross his face, but instead he looks determined - at least to finish the story.

“He was more concerned with the team than he was with what truly mattered. Gwen mattered and he didn’t see it - and I could do nothing about it, but I couldn’t just sit by and be a participant in that, so I started to put in the papers to transfer. I wasn’t going to tell anyone, not until I knew for sure, but Gwen knew I had a secret and pressed me about it.”

If his teenage drama is anything like the movies…

“And you admitted your undying love and she left her boyfriend and happily ever after?”

Lance shakes his head. “And I admitted my love, she kissed me and told me that it would never happen again. She wanted to work things out with Arthur, and I was selfish, I wanted her to stay with me, but I wasn’t selfish enough to stop her. Instead, I just ran away. The transfer went through, Coach Sims accepted me on their team, and I came here.”

So, _not_ like the movies. At least not the bad ones she watches on the school computer.

“So…” Emma says.

“A month later, Gwen called me to say that she was coming to visit. She said something about seeing her own weakness, and I asked her if that weakness was me, and she said that I was her strength instead.”

There it is. Roll credits.

“So now, it’s happily ever after,” Emma says.

“I hope so,” Lance confirms. He looks at her again, assessing, and starts, “Emma -”

The door in the front swings open and the professor enters, her (very, _very_ ) attractive savior. He flashes the room a smile and says, “Shall we get started? For those visiting students, I am Professor Merlin.”

Emma wishes she could say that his brilliance at lecturing (and smiling, boy does he have a brilliant smile) is enough to keep her focused, but between watching Lance watch Gwen watch Merlin, she loses herself in her own thoughts.

There’s a thumping in her head not unlike a hangover headache, but it’s also not unlike the tight ball in her stomach, the one that twists the more she watches Lance out of the corner of her eyes - and it gets worse when he catches her, when he smiles and shrugs like ‘What can you do?’

_What can you do but look at her?_

He’s so open about it, and Emma realizes that she’s incredibly jealous about the same time that she realizes that it’s what she wants.

The openness.

And she’s wanted it before, long, long ago, in a time she doesn’t really care to remember. It’s a memory that wasn’t easy to bury, and it has to claw its way out from six feet under just to see the light of day which is a funny choice of words because -

( _never going to see the light of day_ )

It’s something she doesn’t want to _ever_ see the light of day.

(and once upon a time that she _really_ doesn’t care to remember, _he_ didn’t want that either. It’s funny how even now _he_ seems to get what _he_ wants while she -)

While Emma wants _this_.

And it’s different, the wanting in the dragged up memory overshadowed, overpowered, completely obliterated by how she can only look at Gwen and Lance and _want_ mentally, physically, metaphysically, in every way that you can want something.

Emma wants that openness.

But it isn’t just her in this, and as certain as she is that Killian wants this, too, she’s just as uncertain of whether that desire is enough to make up for last night.

(and there that memory goes again and even now _he_ seems to get what _he_ wants while she -)

She lays her head on her desk, wanting something she doesn’t know if she can still have.

-

Whatever he can say about Walsh, the guy actually isn’t the worst human being to exist, having given Killian clothes to borrow without even asking, which makes Killian feel just a bit worse for wanting to strangle him as he stands over Emma and says, “Leaving so soon?”

And it makes him feel a bit terrible for feeling so smug when Emma says, “Yeah. Nice meeting you, Walsh.”

But neither of those feelings compares to how he feels when they’ve said all their goodbyes, he and Emma left to Emma’s car and the four hours of highway before them, and she tosses him the keys. He catches them easily, looking at her with multiple questions in his eyes.

She answers them all in a clipped, “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I don’t trust myself behind the wheel. You drive.”

He’s driving, she’s hurt, and yes, he is an idiot.

“So.”

“So?” Emma asks.

“You’ll want this,” he says. He takes the key ring between his teeth so he can unzip his backpack. He pulls out his t-shirt from yesterday. It’s bundled up with a rubber band into a makeshift neck pillow. Releasing the key ring, he says, “The drive up here wasn’t kind on my neck. I wouldn’t want the same for you.”

Emma grabs the t-shirt out of his hands.

“Thank you,” she says without looking at him.

“Emma,” he starts.

“We should get going,” Emma says and pops open the back door of the bug.

Emma’s deliberately making herself an easy read. She doesn’t want his ‘Sorry.’

He’s driving, she’s hurt, and well, _he’s_ hurt, too, and where Emma retreats to sleep in the backseat of her car, he lashes out, which must go into why he’s such a piss poor loser, must be why he’s feeling so much like a loser right now.

It feels like he’s losing her.

And perhaps he should've been content with her seeking him out last night, returning to his side and wanting to be there, but was it really too much to want her to stay, too?

Her abandonment at Lance’s untimely arrival hurt. Walsh’s flirtations ticked. But it was her invitation to a picture that got him where he was weak. The worst blow of all was seeing her attempt at an apology and wishing she was actually apologizing for the right thing.

_Sorry I ran away._

Perhaps he should have asked her whether it was an apology for this time, the times before, or future times. Was it supposed to cover them all?

What would it cost her to actually say the words and mean them, to take those pictures with the intention of actually showing them, to be with him, really be with him, not just in a darkened corner or in a restaurant no one else risks going to or in the safety of his bedroom…

Would the cost be too much to bear?

Like her hurt is costing him.

Killian risks a glance at Emma through the door. She has the seatbelt twisted so she can rest her legs across the seat and lean her head against the window. Her eyes are closed but he can see how fast she’s breathing, still awake but unwilling to look at him.

Standing around isn’t going to make anything better, so he gets in the car and starts it up.

She’s pretending to be asleep when he drives out of the lot, but by the time they hit the highway, she really is, so he gives her what she wants, lets her sleep and, for the moment, keeps his apology to himself.

-

Emma comes to as Killian’s pulling into a rest stop.

“Sorry to wake you, but I needed a break and I thought you might need one, too,” he says, turned all the way towards her.

He’s right. She does.

She nods at him, still waking so it takes her a while to understand why he’s still staring at her.

(Oh yeah, remember how he didn’t want to take a picture with you because you fucked up? How could you forget?)

(How could you forget how much you wish he’d said yes?)

Emma’s the first one out of the car, the first one into the bathroom, the first one to run. Does this count as winning, wanting to bang her head against the dirty, graffiti covered bathroom door because she doesn’t know how to voice how much she wants him?

She doesn’t think so, but she sees no harm in asking that, at least.

She takes her time in the bathroom, loitering a bit, cleaning herself up in the mirror just a little more because her mother’s sure to interrogate her when she gets home. Emma forgot to call her, and yet when she looks at her phone, there are no missed calls, only Ruby’s text flashing across the screen.

_Huh_.

Emma opens the text, reads it, reads it again, and then stuffs her phone into her pocket and exits the bathroom because that’s too much to deal with.

She hears footsteps behind her. _This_ she can deal with. She twists on her heel, fists raised, but it’s only Killian stands behind her, his hands not even raised in self-defense.

“What the hell?” Emma asks.

“I found something,” Killian says.

Emma lowers her fists slowly and frowns at him. “In the _bathroom_?” she asks.

“No, can I show you?” he asks. “Without you punching me?”

“You almost sound like you deserve to be punched,” Emma teases.

Her smile, as little as it already was, falls back into a frown at the fixed look he gives her. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twists up and then back down, a smile that’s defeated before it can even be realized.

Killian offers his hand to her. When she hesitates to take it, he waves her forward with a tired shake of his head and starts to walk around the back of the building. Despite the brightness of the day and the thousands of cars speeding by the highway, Emma feels nervous. Why she keeps finding herself in horror movie scenarios, she isn’t sure. In any case, Emma keeps her eyes and ears peeled for any crack of leaves or a chainsaw roaring to life, but mostly she keeps them focused on Killian, on his quiet, on the slight slump in his shoulders and his curled fingers.

When he stops, Emma tries to peer around him to see what he’s looking at, but is brought to a halt by the way he smiles, a shaky thing she finds herself returning.

This time when he reaches out his hand, she takes it.

“There’s another photo booth,” Killian says quietly, tugging her before him.

And he’s right. Situated behind the rest stop bathroom is a rusted water fountain, one lonely flat tire (confusing) and a peeling blue photo booth.

“It probably doesn’t even work,” Emma says.

“It does. I checked,” he says.

There’s a tense moment between them where Killian’s fingers relax on her hand, and Emma could step away and call this whole thing off without a word.

She wonders if she had looked back after leaving Oz what she would’ve seen written on his face. Would he have given her this same look? Would it have felt the same, looking in his eyes and knowing how much he wanted to say yes, how much he wants her to say yes?

To this, the photo booth.

To them.

“Is this an invitation, then?” Emma asks.

(She could still let go. Maybe. If she wanted to.)

“No. I haven’t gotten there yet,” Killian says.

(She sure as hell _doesn’t_ want to.)

“You should get there already,” Emma replies.

His mouth parts - and then, whatever he was going to say just fades into a smile, a slight quirk to his eyebrow, a gentle widening of his eyes.

She pulls at his hand drawing it towards her and he instantly pulls right back and says, “I’m sorry for being stupid about this. I just - lost my head for a moment.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and it truly is when she has his hand in hers.  “I mean, I know how you felt. Feel? Felt?” Emma says, all the while winded closer to him by his pull on her arm.

They’re less than a foot apart when he says, “What do you mean?”

“I was jealous of Tink for a good two days,” she admits.

“Are you being serious, Emma?” Killian blinks rapidly and when the surprise passes, he says, “You are. Tink is my friend. Aye, we went on two dates last year, but she had zero interest in another and if I’m being quite honest, we’re incompatible as more than friends. She just isn’t my type.”

He seems sad to admit this, and instead of being embarrassed by her misguided jealousy, oddly enough, Emma feels sad to hear him say it too; Tink is sweet enough to be everyone’s type.

To lighten the moment, Emma steps in a bit more and baits him with an almost carefree smile.

“Blonde and pretty isn’t your type?” she asks.

“Are you calling yourself pretty?” he asks, tugging her close enough that their toes touch.

Emma glances at the photo booth and says, “I’m just quoting.”

She turns into him as he turns into her and her head grazes his chin. Emma’s about to turn away when he lifts her hand up to his mouth and presses his lips against her open palm.

“I was being stupid, and I’m sorry. Walsh preyed on my worst fears.”

He leaves those fears unsaid.

“He liked me, and I liked him but -” Her breath hitches unbidden. There’s no judgement in his gaze, just this open hopefulness that pushes her forward. She smiles and finishes, “not in the way I like you.”

Her eyes fall to Killian’s mouth, to the smile pressed to her palm and beating away the last of the apprehension she’d felt about this - about them. Her thoughts fall to Ruby, to the stupid text she never responded to.

Emma smiles back at him and feels his sigh of relief before she hears it, his breath fogging up her skin and making her palm tingle with warmth.

“Now that we’ve established that -” Killian grins, he can’t stop grinning and it’s screwing with his words. Emma catches herself returning the smile - and then she releases it, lets it unfurl freely across her cheeks.

“About the other thing,” he says, finally gathering his words.

He kisses her palm again, and waits, staring up at her dramatically.

“The other thing?” she asks.

“I want to take a picture with you. As many as you want,” he says.

She wants that, she does.

But -

“Okay. And the other thing…?” she says.

“What other thing?” he says, confusion taking rein, just as she says, “I want to go out with you. A real date, I mean. I’m asking you out. ‘Out’ out.”

His breath catches on her palm again.

“A real date.”

Emma waits for him to continue, and sighs happily when he lifts her fingers to his mouth, kissing them one by one.

“I have one condition: you let me plan it,” Killian says.

“You planned the last few,” Emma protests.

“To be fair, Emma, those don’t really count as dates.” Emma frowns and he hurries to say, “Let me correct myself. I _have_ counted them as dates in my head, but not planned ones. If we are to go out -” He swallows, smiles, and does this thing with his face that is at once weird and endearing - “For _real_ , then I should be the one to handle it.”

“You don’t think I’m up to the task?” Emma says.

“I think you’ll have your hands full. Ruby wrangling is on you, darling,” he says.

Emma groans. “She’s going to tear her hair out. She already told me.”

He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “Told you?”

**11:26: don’t up and fall in love with him on this trip or i might have to tear my hair out**

Emma looks away.

“Yeah. I told her the only reason she hated you so much was because she was secretly in love with you and it spiraled from there,” Emma says.

It’s a bad lie even with that grain of truth. She isn’t even looking at him when she says it, but what _can_ she say?

( _I won’t say I’m in love_ )

(What an inappropriate time for a Disney song.)

He nods knowingly. “I can see why that would have her on the defensive. Alright, so it’s settled then? Should we, perhaps, adjourn to the photo booth?”

Emma snorts. “You’re acting like we’re sitting down for our portraits to be painted by some famous artist.”

“Next time, Lady Swan,” he murmurs, pushing her forward.

“Does this mean I’ll have to call you Sir Jones?” Emma says.

“Lord Jones has a better ring to it,” Killian says.

Shaking her head, she spills into the photo booth before him, and instantly knows that it’s far too small for them both to fit. She looks up as Killian pushes inside, and stands as much as she can, pulling him beneath her. Their legs get tangled for a bit before she finds a proper seat in his lap. She moves her head to the side so Killian can get a view and only realizes he’s deposited the cash already when the first picture goes off.

“Oh come on,” she says and turns to face his chuckling “lordship.”

“Smile for the camera, Emma,” he says, and the only reason his order works is because he’s smiling at her and she can’t help returning it.

She smiles at him, and then that isn’t enough, so she presses her forehead to his as he runs his hands up her sides.

The flash goes off multiple times as she presses her nose to his, breathes in his air, and brushes his cheek with hers. Emma closes her eyes, lips touching his, but they don’t kiss, and when the machine goes off, loudly beeping its conclusion, they pull apart.

“Another set?” Emma asks, not ready for the moment to end.

“Yeah,” Killian says and reaches around her to stuff more dollars in the machine.

She plans to make this a proper set, to smile at the camera and not at him, and it works for the first two flashes, but Killian kisses her neck at the third and this set ends up worse than the first, Emma’s flushed face taking up way more screen time than it should.

“One more try?” Killian suggests when he finally pulls his mouth away from her neck.

“I’m afraid that if I say yes, I’ll have to burn the pictures,” Emma says.

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says.

Emma stuffs the money in the machine this time, slapping his hands away when he tries to do it, and presses back against him, resting her head back on his shoulder.

She smiles easily, and has to slap herself mentally because this wasn’t hard at all. All she had to do was ask, but the last time she’d asked -

Killian’s different.

She doesn’t have to remember that, but with other memories breaking free, she has to hold onto that, drag his hands up to her belly and hold them tight to her.

Emma’s the one who ruins the last picture, drawing their joined hands up to her mouth to kiss his knuckles.

“Sorry,” she says quickly.

He squeezes her hands.

“Don’t be,” he says.

Killian only lets her to go to get their printed sets. This machine doesn’t do doubles, so Emma grabs the middle one out of his hands because it’s the worst one.

“I want this set,” she says.

He doesn’t protest, just teases, “Are you going hang it in your locker, Swan?”

She blushes because _hell no_ , shifts deeper into his lap instead of rising to exit and turns her head to look at him fully. Emma keeps looking at him as he reaches his other hand towards her face, brushing her hair away so he can thumb her chin and smooth his fingers across her cheek.

Emma makes a breathless noise, and asks, “Where are you going to put yours?”

“Somewhere safer than my locker. Jeff's picked that lock before. I’m afraid what he’ll do to our photos if he gets his psychotic fingers on it,” Killian says.

Emma shrugs. “Most likely he’d sketch a picture of it like -”

Emma quiets and looks away.

“Ah, so you’ve seen the sonogram, too?” he asks.

She nods into the palm of his hand and says, “Yeah. It was a very adorable blob.”

“It’s pretty wild,” Killian says.

“Yeah.”

Wild doesn’t really cover it.

They both consider this for a long, quiet moment.

“Anyway, we should get going before Ruby figures I’ve kidnapped you and sends out the search party,” Killian says.

“Huh?”

“She texted me. Said that our friendship hangs on whether you come back the way you left,” Killian says.

“What if I come back better? Did she mention that?” Emma asks.

It's an odd question, but Emma’s serious enough in the asking.

“I don’t think that ever occurred to her. Didn’t occur to me either.”

Not to Emma either, not until she asked it.

“I feel better than when I left,” she confesses. “I’m glad we stayed the night. Even with…”

“Me being an ass,” he finishes for her, expression clouding over.

Emma supposes the desire to kiss the frown from his lips is just one of those things you feel sometimes, you know, when you’re in her position, when you might be in your right mind but you can’t tell because you’re preoccupied by the party in your stomach and the way his lashes fall on his cheeks.

She doesn’t kiss him, but she comes close.

“Now, you’re sulking. Chin up, I need you focused,” she says.

He perks up at this, lashes no longer falling across his cheeks, eyebrow raising speculatively.

“Oh? Focused on what exactly?” he asks.

Emma swallows and hops out of his lap before he can get a tighter hold of her, before she can think it a good idea to remain.

“Focused on driving,” Emma says when he follows her out of the booth.

He lifts his head to the sky and Emma sees the sigh surround him in a fog of white.

“I think it’s going to rain,” Killian says. “I hate driving in the rain.”

Emma does, too, but she says, “I’ll drive.”

He shakes his head and puts the other sets of pictures in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Just keep me company?”

“Sure,” she says.

-

It starts to rain as she’s attempting to wheedle out his plans for their date. There’s a part of her that wants to be surprised, but there’s also a part of her that just wants to know and that part has a much bigger mouth. Her mouth, to be exact.

“Do you just not have an idea yet?” Emma asks.

“Why are you trying to spoil this for yourself?” he says.

Emma retreats into her seat, glaring out the window. “I’m not trying to spoil it. Why would I want that?”

“Are you going to pout over this until I tell you?” he says.

Emma peeks at Killian. He’s frowning, but it’s caught in between that and another emotion. His expression keeps twitching.

“Yes,” she says, suspicious.

The traffic slows for a second, so he actually grins directly at her when he says, “That’s too bad.”

If the driver in front of them wasn’t driving so much like a student driver, Emma might have punched him. Her car’s too new for a totaling, and she’d very much like to make it home alive so she pouts instead.

“I’m going to get the silent treatment now?”

Emma pouts. She pouts very loudly.

“You know, Emma, you haven’t told me any of _your_ weaknesses,” Killian says.

“I don’t think that was required of me,” Emma says. “Last I checked, of the 37 Dos and Don’ts for this trip, me revealing my weaknesses wasn’t included.”

“I believe there was something in there about us talking to each other. Something about us getting to know everything there is to know about each other,” Killian says.

“Yeah, and you zone in on my weaknesses? Why not my strengths? Or I don’t know, something normal like what’s in my Netflix queue?”

He gives her a sidelong glance. “I already know your strengths, as my bruised body and pride will attest to. I don’t need to know what’s in your Netflix queue, but your password would be appreciated.” Emma shakes her head as he says, “I just thought we could make it an exchange.”

“I’m deathly allergic to boiled asparagus,” Emma says.

“Even I can detect such a blatant lie,” Killian says dismissively.

“It might as well be an allergy,” Emma says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Killian stares straight forward, face blank, waiting, and it isn’t fair how he can call the silliest things his weaknesses and she’s expected to reveal her deepest, darkest secrets.

How she’s still scared of being left alone, that she can imagine a life where Mary Margaret and David didn’t take her in, where Emma remained a Swan without a home, without friends, with nothing to lay claim to except the name of a family that didn’t want her.

That Emma has no idea what she wants to do with her life and she’s scared that she’ll apply to these schools, get into them all and then be unable to choose, end up sitting on her bedroom floor and trying not have a panic attack because she doesn’t know the right place to go.

The fact that she’s scared of imagining a future at all when everything’s so up in the air because she imagined one before and it crashed and burned - and she’s supposed to not be thinking about that, so that’s a weakness, too, she guesses. That she finds herself happy and can only think of the time where she was anything but that.

“I see. Your weakness is that you don’t know how to answer a question. 21 Questions must be your nightmare,” Killian taunts.

She’s going to smack the smirk from his face, but after she finds the words to thank him for leaving that question be.

“So, tell me more about this boiled asparagus, Swan. It sounds delightful,” Killian says.

Emma snorts, takes his words for the invitation it is, and starts in on her mother’s disastrous attempts at healthy eating, which takes them through the worst of the rainstorm and countless horrible memories - takes them through a few years of Emma’s childhood and the summer she spent on her father’s old farm with the sheep, the cows, and the goat that could never resist taking a swing at her father.

“I now see why you never adopted a puppy from the shelter. Who’d want a puppy when they can have a goat?” Killian asks.

“Wish you had a goat instead of a puppy?” Emma asks.

“I didn’t have either, but there was a neighborhood cat that I used to feed. He hated me the least,” Killian says.

The rain lets up about the same time that Killian describes his brother’s near mauling by the “cat that was supposed to be too old to even hunt a mouse,” and they near the Storybrooke town line as Emma’s trying not to give him the satisfaction of a laugh when he talks about his first reading of the “Philosopher’s” Stone.

“Look I see a rainbow,” Emma says, just to get him to stop trashing Ron.

She doesn’t expect him to pull over to the side of the road, but she isn’t surprised when he says, “We should get a picture from out here. Look at the way it hangs over the trees.”

Emma climbs out of the car to get a better look, doesn’t realize she’s chasing the rainbow until she’s a few feet from the car and she hears Killian’s camera shutter.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says as she swings around to look at him. “And the other two.”

Emma huffs because it can’t possibly have been a good picture, the back of her head as she walked, hands reaching out towards something she can’t even touch.

“I’m setting a timer,” he says.

He drops his phone on the top of the car, carefully looking through it until he puts it in the right position. When he strides over to her side, he wraps her under his arm and looks down at her.

His eyes look ridiculously bright and blue in the light of the fading sun.

“This one you can keep,” he says.

The camera goes off as he’s pressing his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss. Emma knows she’s pink from the cold, from his touch, from the warmth blooming in her chest and spreading outwards.

“I’m not putting it in my locker,” she says as she leans up to kiss him.

“Somewhere better?” he asks.

She answers that question with her lips and her hands wrapping around his sides, grip tight like she has no intention of ever letting go.

-

Killian runs his fingers over the pictures for what is likely only the third time. It feels like he’s been doing it for hours, but Emma left him only half an hour ago with a promise to be back at 6:30 tomorrow morning. He looks at the pictures and has no idea where to put them, so he opens his notebook and leaves them tucked between the pages for now.

With that partially settled, he turns his attention to equally important matters, namely Belle’s last few texts.

**9:14: Ruby’s worried because Emma hasn’t texted back in a while. She says her last text was a mistake**

**9:16: I read the last text**

**9:17: At least, now she won’t be surprised if Emma announces you’re dating, but she’ll have to invest in a wig**

Killian looks at the attached screenshot of Ruby’s text and has to laugh, only until he realizes the implications of Ruby warning Emma off from falling in love with him and Belle saying that Ruby might have to invest in a wig. As if Emma loving him isn’t wishful thinking or a fool’s hope or even a slight possibility, but an inevitability.

There’s nothing fated or inevitable about them.

And a wind like this can change in an instant.

In the car, he told Emma about his mother’s curls and how he used to run his fingers through them, how they looked plastered to her forehead on a particularly windy day when she’d come in from the cold. He didn’t tell Emma how the wind swept through his house much the same the day that he found his mother lying on the kitchen floor.

And as lovely as it looked blowing Emma’s hair back as she reached out for the peak of the rainbow, he saw how it looked buffeting her when she bolted on him last night.

It’s not that he’s calling Emma or her affections fickle, but he’s had such a hard time holding onto anything or anyone that when he closes his eyes, in between visions of a future - of the college that might accept him, the team that he might work his way on, of Emma with all the colors of the rainbow around her and the green sparkling in her eyes - in between that, he sees nothing at all.

And he hates it. He wants to be certain of something other than what he feels when he looks at her, but all he can be certain of right now is that Ruby is truly going to have a conniption come the moment that Emma finally tells her.

So, Killian texts back, “She has a rather attractive hat collection. She won’t even need the wig,” because even though he may not have the certainty of Emma’s love, he has this.

And - he picks up his notebook and opens it again to stare at the image of Emma kissing his knuckles with her eyes closed as she cradles their hands to her.

And he has that, too.

-

Sunday’s visit is quick and utterly painful.

They don't look back as they leave Admissions, but Emma does point at the main dining hall and says, “This school doesn't serve real food. I need a school with real food.”

“The idea of harvesting your own meals somehow unappealing to you?” he asks.

“ _Lettuce_ leave this place behind,” she says with an awfully wide, double dimpled grin that means, yes, he heard right, the pun was one hundred percent intentional.

He takes her by the hand and herds her back to their car, smothering a laugh.

-

He doesn’t want her to leave. She can tell because he keeps his hands on the dash, not even moving towards the seat belt even after Emma parks her car.

“Do you want to come in?” Killian asks.

Emma has homework. She has to give her parents the rundown of their trip seeing as she conked out yesterday the moment she hit her bed. She has to find a way to tell Ruby that she’s been dating Killian behind her back.

Emma’s got a lot on her plate, and it’s probably not a good idea to push any of those things back.

“Yeah,” she says and gets out with him.

There’s a pep in his step as he bounds up the stairs to his door. Emma toys at the sleeves of her jacket. She wonders what it would be like if she wore her happiness the way he does.

(Maybe she’d _glow_.)

“Ratched’s not home, so we have the house to ourselves until eight at least,” Killian says cheerily.

“Wow,” Emma says.

His eyebrows shoot up as he says, “I really didn’t mean it like that, but -”

“Wow.”

“Okay, what I really wanted was to show you something.”

Emma refrains from asking, ‘Is that something your dick?’ because no, she’s not the sex-obsessed one, she’s not, even if he does look particularly -

Killian lets them both inside and she follows him up the creaky stairs to his room.

“What did you want to show me?” Emma asks, just as she sees it.

He’s hung the pictures on his wall, right above his desk.

“For inspiration,” he says. “I’m thinking I’ll take Jeff when he has photo lab, get him to blow up the pictures so it’ll look better,” he says.

He runs his fingers through his hair, and stares at her, brow furrowed.

“What kind of inspiration?” Emma says, because the way they look in those pictures is kind of inspiration that Emma can see resulting in one thing only: some kind of ridiculous romance.

It’s hard to imagine herself being the inspiration for one of those, but they just look it.

(In every picture, she _glows_.)

“We’ll see,” he says.

“Cryptic,” Emma comments.

“It’s better than saying that I have no idea, isn’t it, darling?” he drawls.

Emma shakes her head, looking around his room. For the first time, his sheets are out of place and his pillow is rumpled.

“You didn’t make the bed,” she points out as she walks towards it.

“I didn’t have the time. You were early, remember?” Killian protests.

Emma’s response is muffled by how she falls out on his bed. She feels less bad about doing it when his bed is already a mess, doesn’t feel bad at all when she kicks off her boots and rolls fully into it.

“Just make yourself at home,” he murmurs.

She does, is perfectly comfortable by the time she breaks the quiet and says, “You didn’t like this school today?”

“No. Did you?”

“It was too small. Too many farm animals and not enough classes,” Emma says.

He nods. “Okay, good. We can cross it off our lists.”

Emma jumps a little as he joins her in the bed and then rolls into him and says, “But MMU.”

“Aye, I liked that one.”

“So, you’re going to apply too?”

Killian nods, but scrapes a hand over his face as he says, “I am, but I don’t even know if I’ll get in. My tenth grade troubles are still on my record, and even if they choose to ignore it or ask what happened, it’s still on my record, and all these people bloody care about is what’s on paper.”

Emma sits up. He raises his hand from his face, eyebrow already lifting in concern, but she grabs up his hand and squeezes lightly.

“Tell me what’s not on paper, then.”

“I don't want to bore you with the details,” he says.

“It won't bore me.” She squeezes his hand again and says, “Tell me.”

He sighs but doesn’t raise his hand back to cover his face. Instead he faces her completely and starts, “My brother died sophomore year. He worked for a private military outfit after leaving the Navy because it was easier to reach the people that needed the help the most, so he said. He died on a routine operation - I didn’t care for the details of it. It didn’t matter. He was gone and all I had left was a body to bury. I was already rearing to go when I got the letter.”

He sighs, his voice going rough and heavy, his eyes darkening in remembered anger.

“It told me that the insurance wasn’t even enough to cover my brother’s funeral, and that my guardian would have to file all of this paperwork just to get me enough to even pay for a casket. It was unfathomable. I read it over and over again, trying to puzzle the pieces together, trying to make sense of the damned letter when the second one came, the one that threatened to take our - _my_ house for debts incurred by my brother during attempts to save his life.”

Killian grits his teeth before he says, “I lost it. I knew my brother wouldn’t have left our finances in such a state. Liam may have been a prat at times who thought he knew better than anyone, but he wouldn’t leave me with nothing. So, I started doing my research, calling different people, trying to get to the bottom of why this was happening, and everywhere I turned I only got one name: Gold.”

Emma squeezes his hand again until he lets out his breath.

“So, of course, I started researching him as well. Used the little bit of money they’d left for Liam’s casket to pay a private detective to look into Gold. He didn’t find much, but he found out that Gold had a wife, and if anyone would know what he was up to, what he had done, it would be her.”

Emma says, “You broke into his office to get her address. Belle told me that. She told me what happened in Gold’s office, and how you were caught by Regina and him.”

Killian’s face draws up, his expression pained - apologetic.

Emma threads her fingers through his and says, “I just didn’t know that he’d -”

“Stolen all of my family’s money and countless others, and used that money to build up his own private accounts? I wouldn’t imagine that you’d know that, even if your father is the Sheriff. It isn’t a pretty tale. Gold had more than just those skeletons in his closet.” Killian laughs. “But fortune seemed fit to show me favor. Even though Gold had me thrown into the cell at the station, I’d acquired what I needed. When your father let me make a call, I dialed Milah’s number. It took three calls to get through, but finally her son answered. Threatened to kill me when I mentioned his father, but when I mentioned what his father had done, Milah, who was listening in on the other line, said, ‘Tell Sheriff Nolan, I’m coming.’ True to her word, she did and the kind lass bailed me out, backed up my story. You know how the rest goes. You were there.”

She _was_ there. Seated on that bench next to Neal (who wouldn’t stop staring, couldn’t keep his eyes off Emma no matter how close to the edge she got, no matter how much she couldn’t look at him) while Milah gave her statement.

She was there, breathing in that scent of seawater and watching Killian in the doorway, standing beside his social worker, his gaze steady on her mother as she offered him a second chance. Her mother’s words filtering in on the breeze, “ _Not under arrest… no expulsion…  I’m sorry…fought as hard as I could, but it’ll have to remain… community service…_ ”

She was there when he sat in Granny’s, all by himself, ignoring the looks and the whispers and Ruby’s loud hatred, ignoring everything.

She was there when everything changed, when he was no longer the pariah but the celebrated captain of the rugby team.

Emma was there. Emma _is_ here, and she knows how the rest goes.

He sighs again and wiggles his fingers in hers, says, “Well, now that you know me at my worst, do you still want that date?”

She goes for nonchalant and says, “Are you paying?”

Killian tickles at her sides and even giggling as she is, she doesn't miss his sigh and the quick glance at the ceiling. Emma follows his eye line to the fissure there.

“That wouldn’t take much to fix up probably. We could watch some videos on YouTube. I’ll bring the spackle,” Emma says cheerily.

“Yes, sure, Emma, it’ll be a date,” he says, tickling her again.

Emma grabs at his hands and stills their movement. He looks at her, smiling - and then he holds her gaze even as his smile dims.

“Your worst is your worst, but I’m going to choose to see the best in you,” Emma says.

He leans into her, eyes going deep and stare-y, not starry eyed because there are no stars that shade of blue, but it’s something close to it.

“Aye, and I you.”

(She’s not going to say everything slows for a bit, she’s not.)

(But it _really_ does.)

Once time gets back its normal pacing, Emma braces herself on her elbows. Somehow she falls into him - maybe he moves, maybe she does - and she rests on his lap.

She looks away from Killian. It isn’t that she’s nervous or freaking out because then she’d have latched on to his words, “and I you,” and said something about her always being at her best. Even though they both know too well that she isn’t, that she’s weak and flawed and scared of so many things…

Emma looks away because the last she looked, it was much brighter in his room, but now it’s almost dark enough that they need the light.

It’s late.

“You have to go home, right?” he asks.

Killian moves in and lifts up her shirt, a tentative touch to her back before his touch firms. He glides his hands up the back of her shirt and starts at her bra, unsnapping the hooks one by one and making it impossible for her to go home.

Not until she kisses him. She can’t go home without that familiar burning in her skin, even if it means her lips feel chapped by the cold wind blowing outside and whistling through his bedroom.

(Even if it means she ends up riding her own fingers at the memory of it.)

But that’s it. All she wants is a kiss.

He groans as he moves his fingers over the line her bra imprinted on her skin. He starts rubbing at it, a massage that has her falling forward, hair draping over her shoulders and almost touching his chest.

“You don’t have to go home yet,” he answers for her.

She breathes over him, resting her fingers over the collar of his shirt while he keeps rubbing life back into her skin. She tugs his t-shirt collar to the side, revealing the hollow of his collarbone. He shivers when she runs her fingers over it.

“You can stay right here,” he continues, his voice a soothing lilt.

Almost like a lullaby. A very dirty lullaby, though, definitely not for the ears of children. Or anyone else for that matter. She feels a flare of possessiveness, and she expects the guilt of it to set in afterwards. Instead, she thinks of their future date instead, where people will _know_ about them, know that they’re together.

(Maybe think that they’re each other’s.)

The possessiveness flares up, but it fades into something softer, a feeling that radiates - it must do so because he feels it, too. She can see the same happiness reflected in his eyes.

_Stay right here,_ they say.

She keeps her hand on him as she trails her fingers back from his collarbone, down to rest over his heart. It’s stupid, but the beating beneath her hand makes her blush.

It’s stupid but she thinks -

She thinks stupid things, impossible things.

They haven’t even gone on a real date, it should be impossible to feel the way that she does right now. Emma pushes aside the feeling, unwilling to chase the impossible when her reality is staring her right in the face.

“You with me, Swan?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Good,” he says.

He pushes up her shirt, both it and her bra going up and off her shoulders to start a pile on the floor beside them. Her breasts are cold but not for long, not when he tugs her down and immediately latches on the skin above her breast, right near her heart.

(Can he feel it beating beneath his lips?)

(Stupid thought.)

Thoughts slip by as Killian kisses a path over her breast, following the scattered freckles, his tongue brushing her areola before he sucks her nipple into his mouth - and the rest of her gets with the program, the pressure building between her thighs, her clit already begging for attention that she can barely give when she can’t really close her legs without moving off him.

Emma draws back and he sucks hard just once more, enough to make her shut her eyes tight for a second, her hips jumping.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes as clouded with confusion as his voice.

She drops back down beside him and inches her hands towards the hem of his shirt. It’s a difficult task until he sits up and works it off for her, adding it to the pile on the floor.

When he turns back to her, he’s grinning.

Emma tugs him back down, attempting to get what she wants. All she needs is that kiss and then she can go home. She’ll be satisfied with just that.

“Did you want something?” he asks.

She _was_ pitching forward to kiss him, but the smugness in his voice makes her pause. Glaring at him through slit eyes, she says, “What would make you think that?”

“You keep licking your lips.”

He drops his gaze to her lips where ( _fuck_ ) she’s just drawing her tongue back in, her lips wet.

“My lips are dry.”

“They don’t look dry to me,” he says and swoops over her, grasps her chin with his hand to lead her in the kiss that she wanted so badly.

It’s all she wanted.

But now she wants more.

She draws her fingers over his belly, over the expanse of hair pointing its path down, that fucking highway to hell - or heaven depending on what she’s thinking with. Emma’s hand hits his belt - it’s the one with the huge fucking buckle, like he’s making up for something, like he _needs_ to when really he doesn’t need it at all…

(Lock that traitorous thought in your head and throw away the key.)

(Maybe set fire to that vault just in case.)

A moan starts in the back of her throat that never finds voice. Instead, all she can hear is the crashing of their lips, the rustling of the sheets beneath them - and, oh, _his_ moan when she pushes her hand down beneath his jeans and touches him.

Killian’s hot in her hand, but not as hard as she’s felt him. It’s weird to feel how he stiffens with her touch - weird and it makes her hot, her head overrun with it, thoughts set ablaze, leaving nothing but feeling.

She feels him, his cock in her hand, his mouth on hers, and wants _more_.

Pulling away, Killian says, “I need a condom. Coming in my pants is not something I want to become a pattern.”

She squeezes him once before she lets him go. With a stunted sigh, Killian moves out of the bed and steps towards his desk.

Emma closes her eyes, trying to recapture thought. The first one she lays hold of has her wiggling out of her jeans, the second has her grasping at the top of her underwear and tugging those down, too.

The third has her fingers alighting on her clit, barely enough for her.

The fourth thought has her opening her eyes, staring at him as he stares down at her.

(The first, second, third, fourth, and hell, the fifth, sixth, and she could keep going - all of them being the same thought.)

( _Killian_.)

It occurs to her as he climbs back into his bed that there’s no list to go off of here. She jerked him off in that hallway, nearly _rode_ him until she came, and - her cheeks burn at this - got caught. That’s three things gone, and there’s nothing left.

(Well, there’s ‘anal’ left, but they already established there’s no way in hell or this world that’s ever happening.)

Emma has nothing to go off of except his touch, so she follows that as he grazes his hand over her cheek and slides it down her neck, over her shoulder, down to her hip.

“Emma -”

“I wanted to -”

They both quiet, so Killian settles for a sigh and pulling her into his arms. Hesitantly, he pushes his hand beneath her head and winds his fingers in her hair. Emma gets caught up in the way he looks at just those simple strands. It doesn’t feel so simple, the way they lie across his pillow, how the rest of her hair bunches beneath her and clings to her neck and the dampness there. Somehow it feels bigger than that. Special, maybe, but it’s _just_ hair.

When he looks at _her_ , focuses that look on her eyes… Emma burns for him, in more ways than one.

She pushes into Killian, thinks better of that position when he just grazes her thigh, spreads her legs and ends up with one tossed over his hip. Ends up with him brushing against her directly, and then he has one hand on her hip, fingers indenting her skin, the other in her hair, tugging the strands he’s wrapped around his fingers, and he rocks between her thighs, cock rubbing against her clit with each pass into that space.

Emma tenses up - like she’s had her pillow like this before and it’s felt good, but it’s never made her ache for more, never made her so wet that her thighs are sticky with it.

Killian tugs on her hair and it becomes all too much, the strain in his fingers, the way her hands tremble over her own belly. Emma pulls away.

As talkative as he usually is, he doesn’t say a word as she turns them over, pressing him onto his back so she can move above him.

She reaches between their bodies to touch his cock and her face burns up as she drops him, the condom slipping wetly out of her grasp. His cock jumps in her hand when she grabs him again, making sure to keep her grip this time and gently tugs him against her.

Slowly, she presses back down onto him and begins to rock her hips. It’s a little hard to keep her balance but it helps that Killian reaches for her waist.

What doesn’t help is how he begins to meet her. It makes her unsteady when he rolls with her. Her body burns - and she finds herself to be the one speaking, suddenly unable to keep quiet.

“This is so _good_.”

(For lack of a better word.)

“I’m happy to hear that,” he says, voice strained.

Emma spreads a little wider until she’s practically - oh gods, she’s _riding_ him, and it’s even better than it was when she had his fingers buried inside her, better than that burn and the way he made her clench around him.

The tip of his cock hits her clit over and over again, the base running across her wet entrance. She slides one hand up his chest, reaching for his shoulders, for something hard to hold onto.

Killian lets one hand go from her waist, reaching towards her with the other to thread their fingers together. It feels like they move in tandem, as one form when she draws a little further up his body, her knees almost to his armpits, practically squeezing his chest. Her knees ache, in fact, and there’s a burning in her thighs from the position but there’s nothing doing, she can’t move and lose it, not when she can feel herself going - so close to _gone_.

Emma bucks her hips, and it makes her slip forward more than before and when she rolls backwards, he doesn’t slide between her folds. Instead, the head of his cock catches on her entrance. It doesn’t burn at all as the head of him inches inside.

(not like it did when she was _there_ , but the memory is pulling her down, down, down and -)

She seizes up, holding his hand tight.

“Do you -”

“Killian, I -”

They both quiet and Emma stares at Killian, ready for the moment when the memory truly takes hold and she has to let him go for fear of it ending the same -

He smiles at her and it isn’t like she had to remember that he was different, that this is different and she’s _here_ not _there_ , but she needed his smile, needed to know that he’s here, too.

He’s _here_.

Tentatively Emma pushes back, and he pushes in just a little more. She feels hot all over but mostly there where he’s starting to rock his hips. Killian starts to sink in deeper, where his fingers haven’t touched, where his tongue hasn’t tasted -

Emma looks at him as she bears the rest of the way down. It’s stupid how many words have been used to describe this moment and yet she loses every single one in the span of a second - each agonizingly slow inch of his cock inside her taking them one by one.

Her thighs are shaking.

Emma doesn’t protest as he rolls them, only makes a sound when he slips out of her, only the head of his cock still inside her when he finally has her on her back.

Her hand’s still holding his, pinned down on the bed as he rises above her.

He doesn’t let go and neither does she as he slides back in, slow and oh so steady, careful, so fucking careful that Emma has to laugh and say, “I’m not going to break.”

“I might,” Killian says.

A droplet of sweat starts down his forehead as he smiles down at her. Emma tugs on their joined hands and lifts her other to his shoulder, trying to pull him down.

He goes and her knees get pushed up to her chest, and he sinks fast and deep.

“I lied. I’m definitely going to break,” Killian says softly before he kisses her.

Emma lied, too; she’s already breaking.

It feels so good that Emma’s chest burns with it - and that’s nothing to compare to how she feels when he pulls out and plunges back in, how he drags against every inch of her, how she forgets to think for a long moment because she’s trying not to swallow her own damn tongue.

Or Killian’s.

She can’t fucking tell.

She kisses him desperately, seeking some kind of relief in his lips, but all she finds is more of the same. One of her knees is pinned between their bodies, but the other’s free, free for her to wrap her leg around his back and dig her heel in. It doesn’t ground her at all, not in the way she needs because she already has his heavy weight atop her and his thick length pressing her open, she doesn’t need more of him on her. She has enough, too much, _too much_.

What she needs is some way to rein in her own head before she loses it, before she breaks for real. Before she -

He starts moving a little faster and Emma _breaks_ , pushes forward to meet him as he takes and takes and takes, rutting against her like she’s broken him too. The kiss goes off course, Killian pulls away, misses her mouth when he goes back in and starts kissing down her cheek instead, to her chin, ducking his head to kiss her neck, kissing that spot that always makes her make that sound - but he doesn’t need to because she’s whining and gasping the moment her lips lose his.

Killian’s vocal as he kisses his path down and up and all over, every inch of skin his mouth can reach. “So good, Emma,” “So beautiful,” “So bloody perfect,” and “Emma, sweetheart,” “Emma, _Emma_.” 

But Emma’s a little louder, probably muttering the same words as him, maybe - she doesn’t know because she’s too focused on how good it feels as rides hers. She gives herself over to that feeling, to the heat of him, to the way she spreads around his hot length, the way he fills her to the hilt, and how he can’t seem to stop calling her name, his voice raspy around it - “Emma, _Emma_.”

“Oh -” she hears herself say before it all becomes too much.

She shudders around him and it seems endless, everything she wanted, wants, and will ever want all wrapped into one blinding instant. She lets his hand go, but he keeps holding hers, pressing it down in the mattress hard enough to hurt as he draws back and pushes in and stokes the heat that’s already burning brighter than anything ever has.

Killian doesn’t stop and she isn’t sure whether she wants him to. Emma opens her eyes to look at him as he pulls his mouth away, but only catches a glimpse of his tense brow before she’s caught again.

She writhes beneath him, twisting her hand beneath his, her other holding his shoulder almost as tight as she is around his cock. Almost as tight - and almost only in the sense that it’s the only thing that can even remotely compare, if you squint, if your brain is too clouded to think of anything else and you’re just trying to hold onto any thought -

But even that one doesn’t last long and all she’s left with is the burning in her muscles and Killian moving in short thrusts.

He’s even more vocal as he comes but Emma doesn’t understand a single word, not even her name. All she understands is that he doesn’t collapse atop her, but pulls her to him as soon as he’s done and holds her tight, not even kissing her because neither of them can breathe.

She can’t breathe.

She buries her face in Killian’s neck.

“Emma, are you with me?” Killian asks.

Emma nods because she is.

(Not there, not _there_.)

( _Here_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who's commented, kudosed, and just enjoyed this story!


	10. you're too young to be this empty girl...

He might’ve said it then.

It might have been a good time to say it - while he had Emma tucked against him, her hands folded up beneath her and pressed to his chest and her face nuzzling his throat. It might’ve been a good time to lay a kiss in her hair and whisper the words, maybe have her lift her head - and then repeat them loud enough that they couldn’t be taken back.

She feels so soft against him and the heat from earlier remains but everything is tinged by that softness. The darkness of his room, held back by the light in her eyes when she glances up at him beneath her dark lashes, and the hissing and popping of the heating pipes quieted by her gentled breathing.

Emma reaches for his neck, hand slipping down his back because they're both a little too sweaty. Killian feels painted in this moment, colored in by her touch. He’s gold where her fingers caress his neck, and green where her eyes rove over his face.

And then he’s red where, finally, her lips touch his.

More colors bloom, pinks to match the blush of her cheeks, brown for the freckles dotting her shoulders, her breasts and lower where he can’t see; he can only feel her thighs on his. There’s aqua for her studded earrings and even purple to match her nails. Emma kisses him, slowly brushing him down in all the colors of her rainbow - and he could write pages and pages about it and never be able to detail every color in the way they feel washing over him.

He might've said it then, might have pulled back and told her that she’s beautiful, waited for her blush to paint him in a deeper pink before cupping her face and telling her. Then, writing the words into her skin with his lips, his fingers, penning them into the curve of her elbow and the space just beneath her ear, everywhere, _everywhere_.

Killian could say it right now, but she beats him to the punch.

“I love you,” she says.

Quiet _._

And it’s nothing like a punch, less like being knocked down than it is like being lifted right off his feet.

Emma takes a deep breath, smiles carefully, and breaks the circle of his embrace.

“You should take the condom off before it spills,” she says.

“You’re keen on ruining the moment, aren’t you, Swan? You’re also rather right,” he grumbles - tries to at least but he’s too preoccupied by the furrowing of her brow as she sits up and presses her knees to her chest protectively.

She looks cold.

“I have to go home,” Emma says and, in a way, it doesn’t really surprise him that she sounds like she might cry, but it does tug at him, enough that he doesn’t even curse as his knot goes awry and his clumsy fingers make sure that he has to wash his sheets tonight.

“I know, sweetheart.”

She flips her head to look at him, holding his gaze for a short moment in which he confirms two things. One, she _loves_ him. Two, she’s absolutely terrified.

He knows what to do with the first: wrap her up in his arms. The second? Never let her go.

And yet, what confuses him is that he can’t confirm whether the fear and the love are connected because she doesn’t shrink from his touch when he grabs hold of her arm, though she probably should because his fingers are sticky. However, she does open her mouth like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.

(Killian has words. Plenty of them.)

“Emma, that was…”

(That she doesn’t let him say.)

“Yeah, it was,” she cuts him off - and it doesn’t make sense that this is what makes her draw back, not her declaration of her love but her own agreement about their expression of it.

Emma pulls out of her stance, reaching for her clothes, so Killian gets out of his bed to toss the condom, giving her a moment to get herself together. He gives himself a moment, too, to revel in the certainty that he’d wished for only yesterday. Staring at the pictures of them above his desk, Emma’s kiss to their joined hands, he grips the back of his desk chair just to keep from turning around and risking the decision he’s coming to.

To save the words, to hold them to him until he can write them properly - until he’s casted that darkness from her eyes and she can say whatever it is that she’s still afraid to say.

“I’m dressed. You can turn around,” Emma says.

She averts her gaze as he walks towards her, and he’s quick to put on his boxers and sweats so he can give her what she so obviously wants and let her leave and process the moment.

_He_ doesn’t exactly want to but he loves her enough to respect that she’s given him so much more than he ever thought he could have - and he has it, her heart, her love and he’s going to treat it as the precious gift that it is.

“Let me walk you to your car,” he says.

“Okay,” she says.

He’s not crass enough to say that she looks exactly like what they’ve done, but he pulls her to him and runs his fingers through her hair until it’s flat and not a mess of matted curls.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

He bites back the urge to break his promise to himself, but can’t quite stop from bending just a little, grabbing her by the waist and pulling him to her so he can kiss her, not with (overwhelming) hunger, but with remnants of the words.

It’s barely anything, but it’s enough to make her look at him like she knows.

She looks away.

Emma leads the way down the stairs, lets him help her with her coat, and waits for Killian to put on his before opening the door and stepping out into the night.

He walks her to her car, and they stand outside for a moment, letting the chill night air sweep over them.

Looking at Emma, he still feels warm.

“When are we going out?” Emma asks.

Her voice hiccups and Killian leans in and kisses her forehead.

“Friday,” he says as much an answer to her question as it is an invitation for her to share whatever it is that’s keeping her so guarded even as she steps into him and wraps him in a tight hug.

Killian holds her to him, kissing the crown of her head over and over again until she steps back out of the embrace.

“Friday,” he repeats.

Emma nods, and Killian watches her get into her car, stepping back as she starts it up. He watches until she’s pulled away, so far down the street that he can’t see her or her yellow bug any longer.

And even though he said he wouldn't, he says the words then, whispers it to the wind, hoping it carries it to her ears.

-

It should be funny how memories creep up in the worst of moments, or maybe she wants it to be funny instead of making her feel like this.

The car is still idling. She shuts it off, takes the keys out of the ignition and sits, staring out the window and the lit lamp hanging over the front door even though there’s no other car in the driveway. Her parents left a light on for her even though it probably wasn’t dark when they left out of the house. Emma manages a small smile at that.

She leans back in her seat, pressing her head against the cushion. Her car smells like cinnamon, her gifted air freshener doing its job well, flooding her senses with the warmth of cinnamon dusted hot cocoa and donuts covered in crushed almonds, and a warm hand stroking her ankle.

Killian’s hand. His hands, she can still feel them on her, feel Killian on her, over her, in her.

“Dammit,” she says, slapping a hand over her face.

She isn’t crying. Thank God for small favors. There is an awful thing building in the pit of her stomach though and the memory leaking into her vision - and she wants to think of Killian, but she left Killian behind with her ‘I love you’ hanging in the air.

He didn’t return it and she doesn’t blame him because she said it - she _meant_ it, but as much as she wants to think about only him, there’s another face floating in her vision.

She’s even put a name to him again. Not just _him_. Not just _there_. But Neal, and all those parties, but especially that one: the one that makes the truth cling to the back of her throat.

It’s stupid to care so much when she didn’t think of him, not once for two years, not _really_. She had the undercurrent of a thought when she pulled Killian into the bathroom instead of that bedroom at Victor’s, feeling overwhelmed for a second before she lost herself in Killian’s kiss. She sort of thought about it in passing - _the tenth grade co-school slumber party fiasco of which no one speaks_ \- but she didn’t think beyond that, didn’t think of the fiasco, didn’t think of why her mother worries so much about things that happen in Portland.

She _reacted_ , didn’t think, it wasn’t a thought when she felt Killian for the first time and realized how much he wanted her, no memory of Neal pressing on her mind, just Killian driving her mad. She didn’t think of him or _that_ when she was staring at Killian for the first time, trying to figure out dick standards, or when Ruby swooped in to save her when Ashley asked about first times.

Emma didn’t think about it, not _really_ until ‘Never Have I Ever,’ and Belle’s explanation, not until she started to actually want more with Killian than just that stupid list.

Honestly, fuck that stupid list. Fuck it for turning her into this.

Fuck it for making her crave Killian’s smile, for making her like his stupid innuendos and clever jokes, the sincerity of his words, his nervous way of biting his lip and scratching his neck. Fuck it for the texts and the phone calls and the “dates,” and the red tips of Killian’s ears and the blue of his eyes.

Emma absolutely hates it for making her _love_ Killian so much that she can’t even manage to tell him the truth. Because what would he think to know it, of her and all those moments she never thought about Neal, never wanted to - but with the damage he did hanging over their every interaction. Because Emma could lie and tell herself that it was all Ruby that made her keep their secret like she’s been doing for weeks, or she could finally admit the truth.

The truth.

(What _is_ the truth?)

( _You can’t handle the truth!_ )

The truth being that she’s been terrified this entire time. Terrified of Ruby’s reaction, but mostly terrified of herself, her feelings and the enormity of them.

Terrified of where it could lead - and it _did_ lead.

Terrified that it would be the same.

She should feel so fucking relieved that it wasn’t the same, but she just feels this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and a voice whispering in her head that she should’ve known that it wouldn’t be because Killian is different.

Killian isn’t Neal.

And Emma loves him, not for not being Neal, but for being him. Yet, the words are stuck, the explanation impossible to give and it is so terrible how it makes her shake because what would he think to know the truth?

(Would he return her ‘I love you’ or would it go left unsaid?)

She can’t help being terrified, it’s her modus operandi apparently, and she’s scared that it’ll be the photo booth all over again, Killian saying no and Emma having no idea how to make it right. She doesn’t want to put it all on him this time. There’ll be no miraculous photo booth outside of a rest stop bathroom to will the pain away if -

Emma grabs her bag out of the car and opens the door, locking it shut behind her. She stops thinking as she goes through the motions of getting into her house and making her way to her room to take a shower and wash away the sweat and the sex clinging to her.

On her way to her closet, she notices the little stationery on her desk. Unicorn stickers - this one’s running across a rainbow - cover the front so Emma walks towards her desk instead and picks it up.

_Emma, we should be back by ten. Your father surprised me with a dinner out, and I didn’t think you’d want to watch us make (what did Ruby call it?) oogly googly eyes at each other over a plate of pasta. If you fall asleep before we get there, we’ll just push the inquisition back to tomorrow. Your father thinks you should take the easy way out and put it off for another day. I agree. I want you to get your sleep, Emma, you’ve had a long weekend. Oh I’m rambling on, and your father’s tapping his wrist. Love you, Emma, we’ll see you soon._

She once compared her parents to a Lifetime movie, and this feels like the midpoint of one, where the daughter reads the letter from her parents and takes that crucial step.

Emma drops the note back on her desk and takes that crucial step alright, takes it right to her closet, into the shower and into her bed before her parents can come home.

(Crucial step forward? Or a stumbling step back?)

-

Killian ruminates over texting her or calling her or showing up at her window, boom box in hand, but they don’t have a song yet and he’s certain she’d either die laughing at his sorry attempt at homage or kick his ass down the street, two reactions he doesn’t want.

Though the laughter does have its appeal; he’s always weak for the way her chest shakes with it, the double dimples in her cheeks and the crinkling of her eyes.

He opts for texting Emma first, checking in so he can make sure she got home alright. When he doesn’t get a response to that, he calls her phone only for it to go straight to voicemail.

_Fuck_. He should’ve said it.

He should’ve told her.

Killian rolls out of his bed, nothing but a half formed thought in his mind of making sure Emma knows but, as he’s going for his boots, his hand brushes something else underneath his bed.

He grabs blindly, smiling as he lifts her phone to his face. It isn’t true assurance, but it feels like a sign that he didn’t fuck up, that he can slip the phone into her pocket tomorrow. Or just hand it to her as he kisses her on the cheek, the closest he can come to showing his true affections when they’re in the hallowed halls of Storybrooke High and her mother and Ruby are within seeing distance.

Ruby because of the obvious, her mother, well, because of the obvious, too.

He doesn’t think his poker face is good enough yet to hide behind, and that would be the only thing saving him from their wrath. Mrs. Blanchard is as kind as can be, but he’s seen her ruthless, seen her argue down Regina from expelling him from school for the rest of the school year. He doesn’t want to see what she might do if he does more than leave a chaste kiss on Emma during school hours.

Or after school hours.

Hours like the one they just spent together.

Killian groans and starts a mantra in his head because he already took his shower, threw his other sheets in the wash and set clean ones on his bed. He doesn’t need this right now.

He looks at the phone in his hand, actually grateful that she doesn’t have it with her because he would be sorely tempted to text her right now and that would do nothing for the pressure building - he’d just start thinking about the way her mouth moves when she talks, when she’s annoyed, when she’s happy, when she’s panting his name as he slides in and out of her -

_Fuck_.

He slips a hand within his boxers, palming at his hardening cock, dropping her phone on the bed beside him. He really doesn’t need this, but it’s better than if he texted her because she might flirt back and then where would he be? Probably thinking about the curves of her breasts and the three little freckles beneath her right one, that you really have to be looking to see. And the cream of her thighs, he’d be thinking about that too, thinking about the soft lines leading up and up and -

He groans low in the back of his throat, jerking himself out of his boxers.

_Killian doesn’t need this._

But he has it, has himself already in hand, his cock straining and wanting to be buried inside her wet heat again, feel her knee pressed to his chest, her heel dig into his lower back, trying to gain purchase while he draws little hiccups from her lungs with the stroke of his cock.

Killian’s still shower damp which is enough to make it easy to fuck in and out of his own fist thinking about her, unsure how he’s going to stop thinking about her after this. It was hard just imagining what she would feel like and now that he knows how tight she is, how wet she is for him, just how much she wants him - how much she loves him.

It’s that - the _love_ \- the way she said his name as she came for the first time, clenching around him so hard that he nearly came right there, and the way she said it the second time, the sound torn from her throat, leaving her almost breathless - leaving him wanting to draw that sound out again even though he knew he couldn’t, too far gone to do anything but thrust mindlessly until he came himself.

It’s the way she pressed against him afterwards that makes him come all over his fingers, the way she didn’t just want him, but _wanted_ him.

Loved him.

Loves him.

Killian doesn’t know how he’s going to survive now. He isn’t far gone enough to call himself sex-crazed, though he did just jerk off into his hand without a tissue to clean the mess up.

“Fucking hell, Emma,” he says to his quiet room.

He stands up again, this time searching for the box of tissues under his bed, desperate to clean himself off before he has to change his sheets. Again.

And he’s desperate for sleep. He needs it for the week he’s going to have, filling out college apps, practice, and their date.

He smiles at that, stupid and wide, finally grabs the tissues and cleans himself up before he shuts off the light and lets himself lie down in his bed, burying his face in the pillow that smells like her shampoo, relaxing into the sweet, flowery scent that has him practically Pavlovian in the way he searches her out when he smells it.

(He’s not lovesick. Lovestoned more like it because he’s in a haze the moment his head hits the pillow.)

(Absolutely _love_ stoned.)

-

She doesn’t wake up queasy or uneasy, but that’s only good news up until the moment she stumbles sleepily down to the kitchen in search of coffee and finds her father waiting at the table for her.

“Your mother already went to the school, so it’s up to me to lead the inquisition,” he says.

“Are you sure you’re ready to take up that mantle?” Emma asks, coarser than she means to.

He hears it, the strain in her tone, because he sits up fully in his chair, dropping his cereal spoon to the table and looking at her in concern, and that just makes the queasiness set in.

(Her father picked her up - drove all the way there to pick up the pieces that Neal left behind.)

“Well if I wasn’t sure before, I am now,” he says.

Emma sighs around the dryness in her throat and says, “I’m just grumpy because the school was really bad.”

“MMU?” he asks.

“No, MMU is great. It was great,” Emma says.

It was great, letting Killian drive them back to his house after they took the picture in front of the rainbow so she could flip through all the timed pictures on Killian’s phone and choose the best one to text to herself, to print out later and hang somewhere.

Maybe frame it.

Emma’s bottom lip quivers and she bites at it to keep herself steady.

“Tell me all about it. You have some time for once,” her father jokes, his words undercut by the way he stands up from his chair and walks towards her.

She can see his hugs coming a mile away.

“What’s there to tell? It’s a beautiful campus. The students are nice, regular students. The classes seem interesting. They have a professor nicknamed Merlin,” she says.

He steps in a little closer, nudging her with his shoulder. “So you had a good time?”

“I did,” Emma says.

“Did Killian like it, too?” he probes.

She wasn’t exactly dreading that question but somehow it still makes her tense up.

“Yeah, he did.”

“Oh good, so you’ll have someone to go with you,” he says brightly.

She hadn’t really even considered that but her heart swells and bursts, and Emma leans into her father, ready for the head cradling hug he gives her.

“Tink applied, too,” she says like that’s what matters right now.

Her dad gets it because Tink applied, but Killian’s the one that makes her hug him back.

“Now, I’m worried,” he laughs.

Emma laughs, feeling a little better even though she can feel her heart’s little pieces trying to rebuild themselves on the hope that she didn’t think to have. She could see her and Killian there, together, sitting in on Merlin’s class. He’d probably be studious for once. She knows he can be when he cares. Killian would care about a class like that, like he does in English because he’s good at it and it matters, like he doesn’t do in French because they’re both shit at it and it doesn’t even matter.

“It wouldn’t be bad,” she breathes into his flannel. “I’m sure we wouldn’t be expelled in the first week.”

“But week two?” he says.

“Well…”

She sighs and they both step back, but he bumps against her shoulder, smiling.

“You should invite him for dinner next time,” her father says.

Emma freezes. “Next time?” she asks.

She wrinkles her brows in confusion - and maybe a little fear because it isn’t like he can _know_ , but he can certainly guess. He’s not the Sheriff for nothing.

“You should always go for a second visit,” her father says. “Just to be sure.”

She’s quiet for a minute as she considers this. A second visit with Killian. This time, _with_ him.

“What if I’m already sure but…?”

“But what, Emma?” He crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head at her suspiciously. “You sure that you’re sure?”

Emma chuckles and throws a fist at him. “I’m sure that I’m sure that I’m sure.”

“ _Sure_ ,” he drawls.

“I need coffee for this,” Emma announces.

But really what she needed was this, her father’s stupid jokes and his hug and the way he pulls her in again, squeezes her shoulder and says, “You know, you could always invite him for dinner Saturday. Spend it with your folks instead of going to whatever party Victor is throwing for Halloween.”

He tries to look innocent when he says it, but even though he may be better than her mother at the hint dropping, Emma still rolls her eyes and says, “Killian’s not going to want to come for dinner on Halloween, and I’m going to that party.”

“If your mother asks, tell her I put up a fight,” he says.

Emma salutes for the heck of it. “I will.”

“There’s a good deputy, always having my back.”

It’s only fair since he always has hers.

-

The day runs at a standstill.

Emma moves from class to class, but every person that passes her by, every conversation she has and every teacher she listens to all feel like the worst kind of Deja vu, where she’s stuck in a recurring dream, aware of it, but that doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking because even the most boring dreams can go south in a second.

Anything can happen in a dream; this is one of those days where anything can happen, too.

She catches first sight of him in the hallway. It’s cold in the school, so for once his wearing his leather jacket makes logical and not just aesthetic sense. Killian leans against his locker wrapped in a very intense conversation with Jefferson - Jefferson actually looks aware if a little exhausted. Emma stares at the circles underneath Jefferson’s eyes because all she can see of Killian is the back of his head, his hair a mess atop it, the little tuft in the back looking even more pulled than usual.

She wants to run her fingers through it.

Stepping towards him feels impossible though. Her knees won’t move in that direction no matter how much she tries to make them do so, and she knows because her heart isn’t in it. Her head either. Her hands are shaking too for that matter.

So -

Let’s say she does this. Let’s say she approaches them.

What would be the first thing out of her mouth? A normal hello? Or would nothing come out, would she just end up sinking her hands in Killian’s hair and kissing him like she has no secrets left to spill, just the ones held in the space between their hips, between her tongue and her teeth.

Emma swallows and opts not to put herself in that position. Hunching in on herself a bit, she shifts her backpack to the side and pushes closer to the opposite wall so he won’t notice her as she slips by.

She doesn’t look up as she gets to the end of the hall, nor does she look back when she turns the corner. It’s cowardly, but there’s no wizard to gift her with bravery - and she’s saving that for later, taking it one step at a time.

Keep it methodical.

First tell Ruby, and then take it from there.

-

He stands in the doorway for a bit. Neither of them notice, but Killian notices the way that Emma keeps her head ducked in her chem book as Ruby waves her hands about, chatting aimlessly about -

“Okay, so I friended Lance and Gwen, and they’re seriously gorgeous. Holy hell, Emma. At least this school has some eye candy.”

“It has more than that, and they’re not ‘eye candy,’” Emma says quietly.

Killian’s shoulders drop at the sound, at how small she sounds next to Ruby’s boisterous energy.

Perhaps he should’ve stopped her in the hallway when he saw her slinking by him. Getting Jeff to blow up the pictures could’ve waited until after he’d pulled her under his arm, kissed her until she let go of whatever tension that’s shrinking her more with every moment.

“Hello,” he says, waving at Ruby.

Ruby smiles. Killian allows himself a moment to savor it before he looks to Emma. She’s lifted a bit in her chair to look at him with a steady gaze, but there’s that terror still hiding in the lines of her creased brow.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Killian says. Jokingly he adds, “I’m just here to fulfill my probation.”

“I thought the Warden let you off the hook for good behavior,” Ruby says.

That draws his gaze back to Ruby and he asks, “She told you about that?”

“Yep. Belle wanted to be sure I understood her when she said that you’ve paid your time and I’m not allowed to charge you for the same crime twice,” Ruby says.

“All these law references, you’d think we were in an episode of one of those procedurals, ah, I can’t remember the name - the one with lawyer, who has the eyebrows,” Killian says.

“Law & Order is the one you’re looking for,” Emma pipes in. Her brow relaxes for a moment as she rolls her eyes, a soft smile playing at her lips when she says, “And of course, you’d remember Jack McCoy’s eyebrows. You two are kindred spirits in that department.”

Killian grins at her. There’s a wayward hair falling in her face and he wants to tuck it behind her ear, or maybe he wants to pull it all forward so he can drag his fingers over her bare neck instead.

“I’m glad you think my intensity is up to par with his,” he says to shake himself of the desire creeping in.

Emma glances at Ruby as she says, “Intensity, _right_.”

“I’m not sure whether to feel insulted by your tone so I’ll just…”

His words peter out - and he’s _just_ staring at her a little while longer, drinking in the pink of her cheeks, the barely there grooves of her dimples and her open gaze.

They only break away when Ruby snaps her fingers and says, “Okay, nerds, welcome back to the real world.”

Killian turns his back to them, whistling what he thinks is the theme to Law & Order - he must come close because Ruby groans and says loudly, “ _Nerds_.”

He sets his stuff down behind the desk, looking through Belle’s notes of what he’s supposed to do today before he looks back up at them.

Staring again, he watches as Emma keeps twisting her bracelet around in her hand, the one with the little arrows that he admired once and got “shot through the heart and you’re to blame” sung at him, not a hint of actual sincerity in her words.

Maybe he could’ve guessed then that she’d lift her eyes to him one day and look at him like this - shot through the heart and he is to blame, and he doesn’t feel a shred of guilt.

Instead all he feels like doing is grinning, and he does. Only she sees, but that’s fine with him.

He picks up the books that Belle left on the desk, the one’s he’s supposed to be packing up for the middle school book fair and busies himself with that, pretending not to listen in on her and Ruby’s conversation; but _only_ pretending because he needs to ready himself in case Emma tells her, in case Ruby launches herself or cannonballs a book at him.

Killian needs to know when to duck.

“Hey -” Emma starts.

“Jones,” Ruby cuts in and they both - he and Emma - startle.

“Yea?” he calls.

Ruby flips her head back to look at him. Narrowing her eyes, she points her finger at him. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

“Depends on the secret. I won’t help you hide a body,” he says.

Emma must think she’s mumbling, but he hears her loud and clear when she says, “Then you definitely won’t want to know what we did last summer.”

“You, be quiet,” Ruby snaps.

Emma huffs her smile into her hands.

Returning to Killian, Ruby says, “So, I applied to Stanford to be with Belle. I didn’t tell her because -” Ruby’s expression sours, but he has to give it to her, she’s a courageous girl, for she admits, “The possibility that she could get rejected because of what you did, and that I would get accepted at her dream school instead of her terrified me.”

‘I’m sorry,’ doesn’t seem appropriate here, and Ruby doesn’t deem it necessary when she continues on and says, “Anyway, I’m going to tell her. Tonight.”

She pauses for a long moment, and then she drops down in her seat, pressing her hands to her face as she says, “I need help. Like tonight is _really_ far away and I’m freaking out. Please distract me.”

“Distract you?”

Emma looks up at him, biting at her lip. Killian knows exactly what she’s thinking, telling Ruby _would_ make for an easy distraction. But they both shake their heads at the same time, a mutual agreement that it would be too much of a distraction _and_ a safety hazard.

Killian taps his thumb to the corner of his mouth, trying to think but it’s hard when Emma finally reaches up to tuck that hair behind her ear. Her smile is distracting, even when it’s directed at Ruby’s sunken form.

“Law & Order’s on Netflix,” Emma says.

“Oh _my god_.”

Ruby’s chair scrapes underneath her as she turns to glare at him, and even the book she picks up, aimed at his snickering form is worth it because Emma giggle lilts through the library. For a beautiful moment, the weight on her brow disappears and she looks happy.

Truly happy.

Ruby’s thrown book hits him square in the chest, but his ribs can protest all they want, he doesn’t even mind.

-

She doesn't know how she gets the Law & Order theme out of her head but somehow she manages so, by the time English rolls around, there's an empty hum in her head instead of the smooth jazz instrumental.

It’s an empty hum that takes a turn towards buzzing noise the moment she walks in the door and sees Killian already seated at his desk, legs stretched out before him as he bends over his book.

He doesn't turn to look at her when she walks up behind him, which is, well, she isn't sure what it is exactly. They spent the better part of an hour distracting Ruby before she and Emma had to head out to class, and Emma spent the better part of that better part of an hour trading glances with Killian every time Jack McCoy's eyebrows stormed on screen. The interaction was easy, so easy that Emma could imagine that there wasn't so much as a word left unsaid between them. She could imagine that Ruby knew, that she'd told Killian, and that everything was A-Okay and all she had left to worry about were college apps, the ACT, and AP exams.

But now the empty hum in her head feels like whispers as she takes her seat beside him and he glances at her only for long enough to give her a small smile before turning back to his notebook, scribbling words across the page. His handwriting is neat enough that if she craned her head she’d be able to read it, but the silence between them is all wrong for that, and it feels less like curiosity then it feels like prying.

Emma tries to keep her frown from filling her face as she says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies.

The whispering grows louder as he doesn’t look up to look at her, and the queasiness settles in again, this time like a gaping in her stomach, a hunger unsatisfied. All she wants is for him to look at her for a moment, but that would be asking a lot when class is about to start and he’s busy writing.

Yes, she’s rationalizing, and yes, even her rationalizations make her feel like shit.

“Emma,” Killian says.

She perks up and wow, it should be embarrassing how she hangs on that one word, on how she loves the way he says her name, but there’s no one around to see how it brightens her, no one but him and he still isn’t looking at her.

“I don’t think -”

She doesn’t get to hear what he doesn’t think because their teacher clears her throat and he quiets whatever it is he’s going to say as she moves about the room, handing out another AP practice exam.

Which allows 45 minutes for Emma to ruminate over Shakespeare (probably) and whatever words Killian didn’t say (definitely).

Because what doesn’t he think? That this is working? Has he given up on her in less than a day?

It’s a stupid thought, considering the way he looked at her earlier, the way he looked at her yesterday, the way he’s looked at her for the past months, but Emma has a lot of stupid thoughts, just add this one to the lot.

At least she can say that none of those stupid thoughts make it down on the test page, and that her thesis is supportable enough that she has a complete essay by the time their teacher comes around to pick it up. B+ work at the least.

She should be proud of that, but instead she feels empty. The whispering in her head has become clearer, and she can make out that her head's screaming for her to say something.

(Say anything, Emma.)

Killian stuffs his things in his backpack and is up out of his seat before dismissal. _Practice_. It’s a practice day for him and it isn’t unusual for him to leave early to get ready.

But Emma wants him to stay.

As he turns to face her and walk by, he smiles at her again, the same smile he gave her when she came in.

It’s the very softness of it that makes Emma’s chest hurt, because it looks as hungry as she feels. It’s a wanting look and Emma realizes that as much as she desires his staying by her side and talking to her and being with her the same way they were in the library, with the same easy humor and light looks, she can’t ask that of him when he’s still waiting on her. When she’s still waiting on herself.

So, she smiles back at him.

She’s lost in thought - in a way that is more like her thoughts are lost in her, unable to find the starts and ends of themselves, half formed things with no discernible meaning or direction - by the time class ends. Her phone buzzes in her pocket just as she’s closing her notebook.

Her phone.

Emma didn’t even realize she had it, having noticed this morning that she’d lost it. Again. And somehow or another, Killian had slipped it into her pocket without her noticing.

Her heart wrenches - because weeks ago, when she left her phone at his place, it made sense for him to do that. She didn’t want anyone to know about them, and he knew that. They had an understanding then, but she _told_ him, they _agreed_ that it was okay now. That they both wanted to be open.

He could have just handed her the phone. He could have tapped her on the shoulder while they were in the library, said, “You left this at my place last night,” and pressed it into her waiting hand because they aren't hiding anymore.

She tears up when she realizes the battery is fully charged, such a stupidly simple kindness, and has to swipe hastily at her face when she sees his name flashing on her screen.

**2:36: i didn't want to cause a scene**

Yeah, well, Emma doesn't want to either, so she packs her backpack and makes a hasty escape from the room and the school as soon as the bell rings. She’s supposed to be meeting Marian, but she can’t, not right now, not when everything feels so utterly, terribly wrong.

This is not how she wanted today to go. It isn’t how she wanted anything to go at all. But Killian “didn't want to cause a scene.” And Emma just doesn’t give a damn, she’d rather he have made Ruby tear Belle’s library apart freaking out than act like they’re still supposed to be like this.

And she gets that it’s her own fault, that she’s making all the wrong steps today, avoiding him in the hall, letting Ruby’s troubles stop her from sharing her own, and letting Neal - letting him start this whole thing, letting him push her to run from Killian’s arms when she’s finally ready to wrap herself in them forever.

She gets that but it hurts.

So, she turns on her autopilot again and writes off a text to Ruby and Marian, telling them both she’ll call later because she’s exhausted from the weekend and needs a night in, and Emma drives home.

She drops everything at the door of her bedroom and doesn’t even bother to shut it or close the curtains to the sun because her own thoughts are dark enough to draw her to sleep - and Emma wakes much later to a palm touching her forehead.

Recognizing the softness of that touch, she relaxes into it, relaxes enough that she doesn’t stop the tears from flowing through her shut eyes.

“You don’t have a fever,” her mother says.

Emma rolls over a bit and mumbles, “I'm not sick.”

(She isn’t. The queasiness in her stomach isn’t sickness. Not at all.)

Her mother knows better.

“Not physically,” she argues gently.

Trying another tactic, Emma says, “This looks worse than it is.”

Her mother gets up from her bed with a sigh, and Emma opens her eyes to watch as her mother reaches for the tissue box on her desk, pulling a few out. She settles back on the bed beside Emma.

Rising up into a seated position, Emma allows her to wipe at the tears in her eyes. It’s comforting enough that when her mother says, “It looks pretty bad to me. You look wan, honey,” Emma doesn’t try to hide behind tactics anymore.

She gives in to her mother’s kind eyes and says, “I don’t. I shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn't you?” her mother asks, lifting a curious eyebrow.

“Because -”

She really doesn’t mean to cry. She really doesn’t but here it is finally: her true lifetime movie moment. You know the one, where the water starts flowing freely and the troubled daughter lets her mother hold her hand while she tells her everything.

There’s no handholding yet, but her mother wipes away at the falling tears and Emma waits until they’re not so blinding before she speaks.

“I love Killian,” Emma says first and foremost because it’s been first and foremost on her mind every single moment since she said it.

“You do?”

Her mother's expression gentles after a moment, her eyes losing the wide eyed shock and she wipes at Emma’s tears again as she says, “You love Killian. Alright. That’s believable.”

Emma has to laugh at that, a chuckle made nervous by the tears still streaking from her eyes.

“Well, you love him _but_ there’s something wrong,” her mother works out. She thumbs at Emma's cheek and says, “There’s nothing wrong with loving him, especially if he feels the same.” Her mother’s tone sharpens as she says, “Does he feel the same?”

Emma would really like to see Killian live to actually say the words, so she nods and says, “Yeah,” because it is the truth. His eyes, his smiles, his touches have never lied about that.

Taking a deep breath, she says, “We had sex.”

Her mother’s brows shoot up again. Emma barrels on.

“Yesterday, we had sex and it was…” She mumbles the next part around her tears. “It was perfect.”

She sees the moment her mother understands because she brushes Emma’s cheek much the same as she did when Emma first entered the house after that party, feeling so empty that the tears didn’t even come - not until her mother brushed her fingers over Emma’s cheek and took her into her arms.

“But you can’t stop thinking about Neal,” her mother supplies.

“Why can’t I? I shouldn’t,” Emma chokes on a sob. “He doesn’t even matter. He doesn’t matter. I don’t care about him.”

“But he happened, Emma. It’s not wrong for you to think about him.”

It isn’t wrong for Emma to think about him, yeah, Emma reads that loud and clear but she can also hear the ‘but’ in her mother’s tone.

But he was wrong.

He was wrong for what he did to her.

Her mother doesn’t have to say it again. She said it enough times while she rocked Emma in her arms as she cried, still too drunk to do anything but whisper, “He left me.”

“I don’t want to think about him. I just want…”

"”You want to tell Killian,” her mother says.

She does.

“He’s not Neal, honey,” her mother adds at Emma’s continued silence.

“I know that,” Emma snaps. She sighs, trying to find the words to explain. “I know he isn’t because when Neal left me, it hurt. For the rest of that year it hurt, and your stupid safe sex drive did nothing to help.”

Emma shakes her head, correcting herself at her mother’s pained expression and the drooping of her shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It helped, but like when you squeeze the pus out of a wound. Still painful.”

Breathing out quietly, she says, “It hurt, but I got over it. I didn’t think of it at all.”

“Yeah, you did,” her mother says.

“What?”

“Emma, you closed yourself off.” Her mother takes Emma’s hands as she tries to retreat back in her bed. Confusion muddling her head, Emma tries to shake its cobwebs from her mind, fighting her mother instinctively. Trying to _run_ instinctively, but her mother doesn’t give in.

(Annoying.)

(Comforting.)

“No, honey, listen to me. I’m your mother, trust me when I say that I saw how it hurt you, and it was so hard because I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t make you open yourself up to liking someone again. I’m not so good at that.”

Emma slips her hands into her mother’s, finds herself squeezing them in shared comfort and her mother squeezes back, drawing closer to Emma on the bed as she says, “But you were good. You were so good at pretending that it didn’t hurt that I think...I think I convinced myself that you could fake it until you made it. If anyone could do that, it would be you. You can do anything.”

Emma has to laugh at this, too. “I really can’t.”

“No, you can. This is one thing I know for a fact, Emma, don’t argue with me on this.”

Emma closes her eyes and whispers, “I can do anything, right? But I couldn’t make the Swans keep me, I couldn’t make Neal stay, I couldn’t… I _can’t_ tell Killian.”

“Nope, I don’t believe this, Emma. You can tell him,” her mother says sharply.

Emma opens her eyes again, looking at her mother. “Why?”

Her mother smiles like Emma’s being silly, which is distinctly unhelpful for letting Emma stay in her pit of despair. Her mother’s smile has always managed to do that.

Make her feel hopeful.

“Because you have to. That’s the only way you’ll feel better, and the only way the two of you will be able to move forward,” she says.

“Move forward where?” Emma asks.

She’s really not being contrary, but she’s almost relieved when her mother just shrugs.

“Well, I don’t know. What do teens in love do nowadays after they have sex?”

_Was_ almost relieved. Now she’s torn somewhere between laughter and wanting to drop back into unconsciousness just to avoid the smug ‘I can be just as teasing as your dad,’ smile on her mother’s face.

“Okay, this is not a conversation I want to have with you,” Emma says.

Her mother, on the other hand, is totally being contrary when she says, “You did start it, Emma. I wasn’t the one moping around in my bed.”

Emma lets go of her hands to push her none so gently away from her bed, “No, you have to leave. This conversation is over.”

Her mother stops fighting her, allowing Emma to push her into standing beside the bed.

“Fine, fine, but you have to promise to come down and make chocolate chip cookies with me while you tell me all about your trip. Your father didn’t tell me a thing on the phone,” her mother says.

“I didn’t tell him much,” Emma says.

“It figures.”

Her mother opens her mouth, but doesn’t say a word, her expression straining towards pained as she struggles with whatever she wants to say.

Finally she sighs.

“Speaking of telling people, did you tell Ruby any of this?”

Emma dips her head, groaning, wishing she were in the same pit of despair she was in moments earlier because this is so much worse.

“Tomorrow,” Emma says.

“Okay, good. You know the school does allow for cell phones to be on in case of an emergency.”

Emma swallows a laugh, wipes at the drying lines on her cheeks and says, “I’ll keep that in mind while Ruby’s murdering me.”

“Good, good,” her mother says.

Reaching back over, she brushes her hand over Emma’s forehead again. Emma leans into the touch.

“We often make things much worse than they are, you know. Focus on the ways it can go right, not all the ways it can go wrong.”

“I’m trying,” Emma says.

“That’s all I can ask for.”

Her mother pauses only a second before she adds, “Well that and that you finish your college applications sometime within the next century.”

She levels Emma with a look but even as guilty as she is, Emma can only smile.

“I will,” she promises and she makes the same promise to herself.

Tomorrow, she will.

-

Killian smooths his fingers over the counter. He’d wiped it down, straightened the shelves, even dusted the computer and cleaned out between the keys, but if yesterday’s brutal practice wasn’t manual labor enough to tire out his mind, this isn’t going to help. And he’s tried losing himself in homework, in apps, in books, but it’s only made his fingers itch all the more.

He wants to _write_ , and the urge is driving him a bit insane.

It’s transference; he isn’t oblivious to how forcing his words down every time he sees Emma has left them brimming at his fingertips instead. But it’s doing him no good. No matter how much he writes, he can’t stop his mind from replaying the minute changes in her expression, the tone and pitch of her voice, the warmth of her skin and gentle caress of her breath. He’s tried even putting that to paper and it hasn’t helped.

He just wants to hear her say it again.

“I knew it, I knew it.”

Belle’s voice enters the library before she does. He waves her a hello as she sings the words over and over, her heels clicking loudly as she practically dances across the floor.

She picks up the last of the books he left on the counter as she moves to his side and he doesn’t get a word in before she’s pushing him backwards towards the backroom. It’s a miracle he manages not to trip over his feet or hit the wall when she pushes him through the door.

“Uh, Belle?” he says.

“I knew it,” Belle squeaks.

Forcefully, she jabs Killian in the chest with the books, hard enough to leave a mark shaped like their torn book spines. Her expression is dancing, too, he sees now that she’s stilled. She looks kissed by happiness, its light making its home inside her and shining outwards.

Killian shares in its glow, returns her smile with one of his own.

“Perhaps you’d care to explain why you and your girlfriend are so keen on assaulting me with literature?” Killian asks jokingly. He raises his eyebrows in suspicion and dips to her height to quietly say, “Is this a sexual thing? I’ll be happy to help in _any_ way I can.”

Belle rolls her eyes, still beaming at him.

“I knew it,” she hums happily.

He shakes his head and asks, “Knew what?”

“Ruby applied to Stanford for me, like I told you. She told me last night _and_ she said that you helped her be brave enough to do it. Didn't I tell you that she'd come around?”

At a loss for an argument Killian nods and says, “True, lass, you did tell me that. I should trust your judgement more often, I suppose.”

“You should,” she says.

He hears her boot heels drop before he sees Emma appear in the doorway. In seconds, her mouth drops open and her eyebrows take flight towards her hairline, looking for all the world like she’s just interrupted something intimate.

Quickly, Killian pushes away from Belle. He raises his hands, well aware that it makes him look like he’s waving the white flag and says, “She knew it.”

Emma’s brows relax back to their normal height, and she says, “I know. I could hear her chanting it down the hall.”

She leans back against the door frame, crosses her arms over her chest, and turns her growing smile in Belle's direction.

“So last night went well?” Emma asks.

“ _Really_ well,” Belle says with an emphatic nod that he’s certain he wasn’t meant to see by the way Emma and her both turn red, Belle’s laughable and Emma’s dyeing her throat a pretty shade, following a trail along its column and descending beneath the confines of her shirt.

Killian swallows and feels himself turning a bit red, too.

Gathering himself, he whistles quietly and says, “What was that? I'm sorry I didn’t hear a thing.”

Belle looks at him, nodding gratefully with her face still blazing and her grin still a bit nervous. She claps her hands together, her nod turning authoritative, and says, “And Killian was just telling me that he should trust my judgement.”

Killian flounders at the implication in Belle’s words. He had figured out that she _knew_ from that conversation in the library, but it never occurred to him that she might actually revisit said conversation, or do so in front of Emma.

Especially at a time like this, when he’s trying to give Emma space enough to get comfortable with what’s bothering her - and other things.

He looks to Emma.

She looks to him.

And the words blaze between them, actual words unnecessary for the guilt in their gazes.

“I _knew_ it.”

Belle punches the air which is the most physically excited Killian has ever seen her except for the time they both got to touch the first edition Fellowship of the Ring at Portland’s main library. He was pretty excited, too - and actually, he feels quite the same now as Belle rounds on Emma and says, “So…” and Emma smiles and replies, “Yeah, you’re right.”

It takes all his will not to cross the distance and gather her up against him. He looks to Belle for strength because looking at Emma only begs danger. Every piece of her begs the touch of his lips and he can’t pretend that he hasn’t had fantasies of pushing her into this very room, hoisting her on the little shelf in the back and making her cry his name with only the books around to hear.

He can’t even pretend it with Belle drawing her conclusions from his quiet form.

“Anyway, you wanted me to look over that Stats homework for you, right?” Belle asks.

She drops the books in Killian’s hands and spins around on her heels, at a breakneck speed moving to Emma’s side and marching her out of the room.

Killian holds the books in his hand, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Belle’s heels click on the floor, followed by Emma’s much quieter ones, but that’s all. He breathes out and waits, but all hears is the scrape of Belle’s chair and a murmur of their conversation.

He looks down at the books in his hand and remembers that he meant to ask Belle if he could keep these. As bent and torn as they are, there’s no way they’ll survive another semester. He scratches at his neck, the words sounding cheesy in his own head, but still - he wants to give them a second chance, like Belle gave him.

There hasn’t been a moment where he’s felt as grateful for that chance as this. When she drew him to her side and introduced him to Regina, it came close. Or when she chose him over the other applicants for her volunteer position in the library.

But she’s never felt more like a friend than today.

He starts to lean back against the shelf but stops himself. He can meditate on just _how_ this has become his life another time - he’d much rather be sitting out there with them.

Killian leaves the room and calls out to Belle, “Hey, can I keep these books?”

Belle tosses her head back, looks at the books he’s waving at her and lifts her shoulders in nonchalance.

“Sure, the library won’t miss them and you’ll make a good home for them. Just take them out of the catalogue, please,” Belle says.

“Yeah, he’ll keep them well. You should see his room,” Emma says.

Killian lifts an eyebrow, but there’s no weight to it, not even teasing. His heart is solely in the smile he gives her.

“Neat freak,” Emma teases.

She looks at him as she says it, and Killian’s fingers itch again. Maybe it isn’t that he wants to say so many things, maybe it’s that his tongue is so useless for all the things he wants to say. His fingers itch and he has a million things he wants to write - starting with this:

How grateful he is for the way Belle laughs and says, “He dusts the computer every time he’s here. Neat freak is an understatement.”

And how he wants to hear Emma say it again, but he’ll settle for her weighted gaze and her husky tone when she says, “Understatement, yeah.”

There’s nothing understated about the light dimpling of her cheeks, and happiness may have made its home in Belle, but he’s made his home in Emma and there’s nothing to rival that.

“Thanks,” Killian says.

“Think nothing of it,” Belle says.

He thinks everything of it, and Killian’s fingers itch - and he’s behind the desk before he knows it, fingers on the pen, pen on the paper, and thoughts flowing onto the page.

-

Emma’s has half a mind to yell at Ruby for Tuesday’s absence when she comes up behind her on Wednesday - but most of her mind is preoccupied with controlling her hands as she rips apart the blue funtak and sticks it to the back of the picture.

She swore she wouldn’t put this up. All last night as she stared at it instead of doing any number of important things, she told herself it was a bad idea. Her mind didn’t change this morning even though she placed it carefully between her textbook pages and slipped it into her backpack, nor did she feel _good_ about it when she borrowed the funtak from her mother’s office.

She’s still telling herself that it’s Not a Good Idea ™ in fact.

(It’s a terrible fucking idea.)

“Ooh, are you finally redecorating your locker? Thank god, that Gryffindor badge looked so lonely up there,” Ruby says, her arm sloped over Emma’s shoulder, a weight that’s usually equal parts comforting and annoying. Now it is equal parts comforting, equal parts annoying, and all nerve-wracking.

“Yeah,” Emma says. Realizing how quiet she said it, she repeats, “Yeah. I’m redecorating.”

She gets the last of the funtak on the picture and (this is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea) with one quick slap of her hand, seals it on the inside of her locker.

The way the lighting was in that photo booth, it actually sort of matches with the faded colors of her badge, and as ridiculous as the picture is, Emma likes it for that reason - and other reasons, chiefly the way it makes Ruby stop leaning all her weight on Emma and step back enough that Emma can turn to take in her gape mouthed expression.

“We’re going to the library. Wait, no, we can’t go there - we are going to the lunchroom and you’re going to…”

“Explain myself?” Emma says wryly.

Ruby nods. “Yeah, oh boy, you’re going to do that.”

Ruby stalks away so Emma can only shut and lock her locker and follow Ruby through the empty halls to the lunchroom. She sweeps through the double doors, brown coat streaking behind her - Emma takes a moment to admire how model-like Ruby looks; a moment she is sure not to have after Ruby does whatever she plans to do.

She takes the table in the furthest corner, seats herself sternly on the bench and crooks a finger at Emma.

“What is that picture supposed to mean, Emma?” Ruby says when Emma’s seated across from her.

“What do you _think_ it means?” Emma asks.

Like - Killian was kissing her in that picture, Emma pinned it in her locker, and Ruby’s smart enough to put two and two together easily.

“So, you’re telling me that he’s your boyfriend?” Ruby asks.

“My boyfriend? _Killian_?”

Emma opens her mouth to scoff, and then she closes it around the lie, cheeks pinking from the truth.

“He is,” Emma says.

Ruby slams her hands on the table, moaning sadly, “This is terrible. How am I allowed to be mean to him now?”

“I don’t control you. Be mean to him all you want,” Emma snaps.

(Ruby wrangling is going _great._ )

Ruby sighs and grabs Emma’s hands. Folding their fingers together, she sways them. It’s a familiar move. Last time she did this, she sprung another ‘I have to meet Ashley, can you cover this for me?’ on Emma. And the time before that, Ruby showed her the list. Emma knows this isn’t going to end well.

“But I don’t want to be mean to him,” Ruby says.

Or maybe Emma knows nothing at all.

“You like him a lot. I mean, I didn’t know that you did until five minutes ago but, honestly, I thought you and _Elsa_ were sneaking around together,” Ruby says.

(What?)

“ _What_?” Emma asks.

Ruby nods wildly, eyes all wide with excited energy as she says, “I had it all figured out. All those times I texted you and you were doing your homework - and then Anna texted me one day to ask if Elsa was with you. And oh! When I saw you sneaking into Mama’s - Anna has a thing for their burnt chocolate chip waffles, Elsa told me when I caught her. And just, your general air of happiness? Elsa’s been glowing lately, like when you guys make your magic cupcakes together and she has to help you pick the batter out of your hair. And you’ve been all - I thought you were getting some!”

Emma screws up her face in an effort to control the inevitable blush.

“Well, you _were_ getting some. God, I’m an idiot.”

Ruby throws her head back, letting out a frustrated whistle. If Emma had a free hand, she’d reach over to pat her on the shoulder because Ruby’s _definitely_ the one in need of comfort and not Emma. No, of course not, what would Emma need comforting for? It isn’t like she’s been freaking out about Ruby’s reaction from the very beginning or anything. It isn’t like she’s in shock from Ruby’s reaction or anything.

She squeezes Ruby’s hands, comfort enough for the both of them.

“It was a good guess. I’m impressed that you’d think so highly of my taste,” Emma says.

Ruby grumbles, drawing her head forward again so she can shrug and say, “He isn’t bad either. I mean, you could do worse than someone who looks at you like that.”

Ruby sighs and leans further in, brow furrowed, voice all full of quiet wonder as she says, “Your boyfriend. _Killian_.”

“Yeah,” Emma says, echoing her tone.

“Gross,” Ruby says, wonder gone as quick as it came.

Emma laughs, dragging them both down onto their elbows, their chins on the table as they look at each other.

“I guess if you’re in this hell, I’m in it with you. So, when’s he taking you out?” Ruby says.

Emma narrows her eyes. “Just to be clear here, you mean a date and not like taking me out as in murdering me, right?”

“To be clear…”

Ruby grins, eyes flashing, the green almost yellow and almost totally foreboding.

Emma lets go of her hand and reaches over to smack her on the chin.

“The date’s Friday.”

Ruby makes something like a growl in the back of her throat and says, “This isn’t a secret, right?”

“Why would it be?”

“Emma.”

Emma chooses to ignore the pity in her tone because that always hurts worse when it comes from your friends. She doesn’t want to feel hurt. Not today. Not right now. In fact, basking in the moment seems right up her alley.

“No, seriously, Emma. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Ruby asks.

“Because I was -”

Emma finds she can’t go on.

“There we go,” Ruby says.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Emma says.

(Yeah, it totally does.)

“Yes it does. One, that it was you who kept it a secret, not him, which implies that two, you were scared to tell me, which means one of two things: one, that you were scared to tell me because I might kill him or two, that you were scared to tell me because I might kill you. So which one was it?”

Emma stares at her blankly.

Ruby sighs and says, “And your silence proves that it wasn’t just one of those things, but it was both. Emma, you’re my best friend in all of the world and as your best friend, I’m going to slap you upside the head while I tell you that I would never kill anyone that you like and I would never kill you for liking anyone no matter how much I hate your taste.”

True to her word, Ruby slaps her upside the head, but she smooths Emma’s hair back out after she does it, which is as much contrition as Emma can expect when Ruby is already being kind enough not to mention the elephant from their past.

“It’s okay,” Emma says to that. “I know - I wasn’t totally scared of you. You don’t have to pretend that he didn’t happen. I’m done pretending.”

“So are you going to tell Killian about him?” Ruby asks.

An astute question.

Honestly, as good as Emma is about detecting a lie, Ruby is excellent at sniffing out the truth.

(If college doesn’t work out for them, maybe they’ll become that crime-solving duo they were always meant to be.)

“I am,” Emma says. She repeats it just to see Ruby nod with her in approval because at least, _if_ things don’t - (and sorry, Mom, but she’s going to think worst case scenario for a moment) - if they don’t work out, Emma will at least have Ruby by her side.

“On Friday?” Ruby asks.

Well, Emma hadn’t exactly decided on that, but now that Ruby’s said it, it feels right. Friday. Maybe that’s what Killian was saying when he kissed her forehead outside her house and repeated it.

Friday.

_Tell me Friday_.

Emma’s lips tug into a smile at his foresight, and then smiles wider at the memory of his lips on her.

“Hey!”

Torn from her thoughts, Emma looks up just as Ruby does to see Marian and Tink walking towards them.

Tink takes one side, next to Ruby. Marian takes the other, next to Emma, and apparently Emma and Ruby’s conversation is written on their faces because Marian says, “She told you? Finally.”

“You knew?”

Ruby gapes again. Admittedly, she makes it look good.

(This world is so unjust.)

“Yeah,” Tink answers for Marian.

“Of course,” Ruby says, throwing her hands up in the sky.

Serenity might not be normally labelled a virtue, but it definitely is one when it’s practiced by Ruby. Ruby’s lips move in a silent mantra as she closes her eyes and lifts her head to the sky. Tink raises an eyebrow curiously but Emma waves her hand to quiet her, her own silent plea weaving with Ruby’s own.

_Please don’t turn Ruby’s anger on me._

_Please don’t let me turn my anger on Emma_.

Ruby’s chest heaves high and then she lets out the breath, counting “One, two, three…”

“Alright,” she says when her eyes are reopened.

“Are you better now? Come to terms with the fact that you’re blind as a bat?” Marian says.

“I am not! Emma tell her,” Ruby demands.

(Well, what are friends for?)

“She thought I was dating Elsa,” Emma explains.

Tink claps and says, “Creative. Ignoring the obvious right? Because Killian was so obvious, I’m surprised he didn’t end up just shouting it from the rooftops.”

Tink’s loud enough that Killian doesn’t need to, in case he decides to do that now. Though, Tink’s underestimating just how quietly he can show his feelings, how he can just touch her hand and Emma _knows_.

Emma hugs herself and allows herself a moment to wish it was his arms instead.

( _Friday_.)

“Does this mean I’m invited to Early Decision Club now? This is the thing you didn’t want me to know which is why you didn’t invite me, so now can I be invited?” Ruby asks.

“Yeah, yeah. You can come,” Marian says.

“Okay, cool, so next Tuesday. Sleepover? I’ll bring Granny’s pie,” Ruby says.

“And Elsa can tell us whoever she’s been sneaking around with,” she adds with a smirk.

Emma groans. “Don’t make us rescind the offer.”

“Alright, alright.”

The mischief doesn’t leave her expression. Emma groans again, leaning into Marian to whisper, “How much do you want to bet she’s going to pull a Truth or Dare?”

“I’m not placing that bet,” Marian murmurs.

Sighing, Emma leans further on Marian, glad for the moment her friend wraps her arm around Emma, but mostly glad for the way the conversation ebbs and flows around her, unfazed and undimmed by the truth.

Emma meets Ruby’s eyes across the table, and Ruby draws her hand to her head, twirling her finger in the “they’re totally crazy” gesture as Tink starts in on her suggestions for sleepover movies.

Crazy, right, that she ever imagined that it wouldn’t end this way.

(Focus on the ways it can go right, remember?)

(Hope’s catching, remember?)

Emma remembers, and swears not to forget again.

-

He arrives fifteen minutes early. He’d timed it perfectly from the moment he got her text - leave the house to be there by 5:45, which gives him fifteen minutes to get comfortable in his usual booth, order a coffee so he can be bright-eyed and awake for his demise. Maybe even get a chance to eat a quick bite, so he can go out with a full belly of deliciously greasy diner food.

His timing’s not off; it’s perfect and still he’s too late, for Ruby’s already waiting when he steps out of the cold into the clinging warmth of Mama’s.

Killian fails to see how putting on a friendly smile can hurt him, so he does, waving over at Ruby before he slides into the booth across from her.

“You’ve stolen my side of the booth,” he comments.

She drops an eyebrow, her lips curling upwards.

“This side of the booth has never looked better,” she replies.

He makes a noise of argument, but she’s probably right. Where Ruby gives the booth a glamour lift, he’s certain all he’s ever done is look just as downtrodden as the rest of the diner while sitting there.

“You look lovely today, Ruby,” Killian comments. Nodding at the top of her head, he says, “I love the hat.”

“If you’re looking to see whether I’ve torn my hair out, no, my glorious locks are still intact,” Ruby says.

To prove her words, she takes her hat off and bows her head so he can see the neat part down the center of her still attached hair. Placing the hat back on her head, she says, “Belle showed me the forwarded text. I’m sure you and Emma had a good laugh over that.”

She stares at his face for a moment.

Killian swallows, past Emma swimming into his vision, her head ducked away from him as she (sort of) lied. He can’t blame her for it -

He feels himself slide down a bit more in his seat as the longing starts to reach out from where he’s pressed it down.

(He misses Emma.)

“Or not,” she says.

Killian doesn’t think that requires a response, so he doesn’t give one, merely shrugs and looks towards the bored waitress at the counter. Ruby follows his gaze.

“Emma likes their donuts. Like a lot. She thinks I don’t know, but I can always tell when something’s off with her. Especially when she turns down a sweet from Granny’s because she’s ‘too full,’” Ruby says.

Killian’s glad for her humor and the way it eases that yearning void in his chest. Grinning he says, “Making it a little obvious, isn’t she?”

“Right? You’d think she’d try a little harder,” Ruby says. Her smile slackens and she lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I never said anything about it because I didn’t want her to think me prying all the time. I’m nosy, and I know that’s not one of my more endearing qualities.”

“No?” Killian says, unable to resist the sarcasm.

Which leaves him open when Ruby leans forward and says, “I would've asked her about you, though.”

Killian leans forward, too, and challenges, “Would you have?”

“Killian, I would’ve murdered you not even a month ago, do you think I wouldn’t have dragged my best friend in here and demanded that she tell me what the fuck she’s doing with you?”

Killian stares at her for a long moment, and then breaks into a grin as he calls Ruby on her bluff.

“No, I don’t think you would have. She _is_ your best friend after all,” Killian says.

Ruby rolls her eyes but relaxes back in her seat, and her smile is growing again, enough that Killian feels assured he isn’t being murdered this evening.

“Want a donut?” he asks while sliding back out of the booth.

“Give me Emma’s usual,” Ruby says.

“And what’s that?” Killian says.

He can’t even feign ignorance correctly because his tone is too humored for that, and he nearly slips as he walks backwards towards the counter, gaze too focused on Ruby.

“Don’t pretend she hasn’t made you try her favorite,” Ruby says.

He twists around to the counter, smiling at the waitress. “Three almond donuts, please.”

“Three?” Ruby asks behind him.

“You’re going to see Emma later, right?” he asks.

He spins around to look at her as the waitress disappears into the kitchen. Surprisingly, Ruby stares at him, slack-jawed. Killian scratches at his chin and says, “What?”

Ruby shakes her head, closing her mouth and frowning at him.

Puzzled, Killian shifts on his heel yet again when the waitress returns with the donuts. He pays, gets a bag for Emma’s donut and takes his and Ruby’s back to the table.

“What is it?” Killian asks when he’s reseated.

Ruby sighs.

“So, I thought Emma was dating Elsa, and I _want_ to be disappointed that it’s you. I _want_ to be angry. But, you know what, I don’t hate that it’s you instead.”

Killian drifts back in his seat. Picking up the donut, he dips his thumb in the warm glaze, trying to digest Ruby’s words. Expect the unexpected seems rather appropriate here, and he expected brutal honesty (and brutality in general) but he didn’t expect her to be genuine.

Didn’t expect that she might actually do more than accept that Emma likes him.

“Elsa would still be the better choice, right?” Killian says.

Ruby rolls her eyes, sees right through his fishing attempt and says, “You’re not going to make me say I like you more than Elsa because that’s impossible, Elsa’s an angel and you are _you_.”

Killian groans. “I’m heartbroken.”

“I sincerely doubt that one but you will be -”

“Ah here it is,” Killian says. He leans in again. “You’ll murder me if I hurt, Emma.”

Ruby jerks back in disbelief. Lowering her eyebrows, she jabs a finger in his direction, the slicing motion a little undercut by the donut piece in her other fingers.

“I swear to all that is holy you’d wish I’d just murder you for that.”

She means that.

But Killian means it too when he says, “Well, I guess I’m safe from your wrath. I won’t hurt her.”

Ruby nods. With a smile that Killian doesn’t trust at all, she says very sweetly, “Now, that we’ve got that covered, Killian Jones, I also swear to all that is holy that I will come back from the dead to murder you if you tell Granny that I was here.”

“Granny seems the type to kill the messenger,” Killian says.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Ruby says.

She tears at her donut, fingers ripping it to shreds that she delicately places in her mouth, chewing with a thoughtfulness usually reserved for philosophizing. Ruby grins at him between bites, her wink doing nothing to shake the growing feeling of dread.

(Oh, he might have an inkling.)

-

As luck would have it…

(Head bent over a pile of papers, hair draping them in gold.)

As luck would have it…

(Hair sweeping the paper, head turning at the opening of the door, face coming into focus.)

As _luck_ would have it because surely this is only luck that the one day they don’t have classes together, the one day that Belle’s library is locked up while the custodians do a deep cleaning of its floors, the one day that he is certain not to see anyone but Tink, Jeff and Vic, Killian’s steps take him to the yearbook committee’s office. It’s usually occupied, but he checked with Vic - desperately in need of a quiet place to not to do anything in particular, but to just _be_ \- and he said it would be empty for the next couple of hours.

Which was perfect for Killian, or at least he thought so until he looked through the window of the office and saw the blonde head bent over a book, until he turned the knob, barely able to control the racing in his blood, exhilaration he’s never even experienced on the field, only in a moment like this when her head turns to look at him and she sighs.

It was perfect until he found true perfection in the way Emma straightens like she was waiting for this moment when luck would have its way to bring them together.

“Looking over the yearbook draft?” he asks to her quiet form.

Killian approaches her slowly. It isn’t trepidation holding him back but his own will keeping him from spooking her with how happy he is to see her.

He’s been over this with himself already.

He's lovestoned.

(Not sex crazed, not thinking of pushing her up against that printer and covering her mouth with his…)

“My mom wants me to help out a bit,” Emma replies. “I’ve had practice over the past few years and she was like, ‘Emma, don’t you want your yearbook to look good? You can’t leave this in Victor’s hands. Do you know what liver damage does to the hands?'"

Killian grins, not sure if he’s actually meant to reply or not. Not sure he wants to break her from the little smile on her face as she tilts her head to the sky and thoughtfully says, “I'm not sure _what_ it does, actually.” She smiles wider, apparently satisfied with whatever conclusion she comes to. “But I know the kind of damage Victor can do, and this book is looking in dire need of some assistance.”

“Do you need some help?” Killian asks.

She waves her hands about and says, “I’m not even sure where to start yet. The cover?”

Digging through the pile before her, she finally finds it and waves the paper in front of him so he can see her dilemma. Killian’s seen a lot of poor book covers, but this one is up there with self-published erotica, which he’ll have to explain to Victor that it isn’t a compliment at another time.

For the moment, he’s intent on finally reaching Emma’s side.

(Lovestoned is wanting to take her against him and just hold her, right?)

(And sex-crazed is wanting to grind into her, make her gasp.)

(So perhaps he’s somewhere in between.)

“You've a stronger constitution than I, Emma. I fear that if this monstrosity is indicative of the whole book so far, I won’t take seeing any more of its pages,” he says.

Distance between them finally closed, Killian touches her shoulder and she melts into it, a slight furrow in her brow the only thing that makes him hesitate in pulling her closer.

She places her hands on her hips and says, “You’re just saying that because you’d rather be kissing me instead.”

Killian is _not_ a deer in headlights; he’s a deer smeared across the front bumper, and the car’s driving off with him as its new hood ornament.

“That is.”

Killian scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand which draws Emma’s laughter and he groans, the sound only proving her right.

Well -

He steps into her and says, “That’s true.”

She reaches up for him first, dropping the page back down on the table and cupping his face, but she doesn’t draw his head down. She doesn't kiss him or make any moves that she even wants to.

His disappointment is palpable. It floods the room - his slight groan too audible, the slumping of his shoulders too obvious, and his frown too marring - and Emma mirrors his expression.

“I'm sorry,” she says quickly, but she doesn’t let go of his face and he doesn’t move to step away.

As luck would have it…

(She bites at the inside of her cheek.)

As luck would have it…

(Her thumb rubs over the scruff of his chin.)

As luck would have it because surely this is only luck that even in the moment that they can finally _be,_ there is still something holding her back.

Good or bad.

“It’s alright,” he says. He clears his throat and offers his help again, says, “So what can I do to assist you?”

The ache in his chest eases while she strokes her thumb over his skin, only drawing back after a long moment - but it eases right into yearning when she lets out a wistful sigh, like she could’ve been happy standing there like that forever.

“I could use company while I make some notes,” she says.

Her tone begs and he heeds it, drawing away from her so he can pull out the two chairs at the printer’s table for the both of them. He drops his backpack to the floor and scoots his chair out of the way so she can sit down in front of the pile of yearbook pages.

Killian settles beside her, content to just watch for a while. He did come her to just _be_ , not to do anything but relax. He’d probably be taking a nap right now if she wasn’t here.

But she is.

He can’t sleep when she’s right there beside him and he’s missed her for days, missed being so close that he can smell the shampoo in her hair, feel the warmth ebbing from her small frame.

The air around them changes as Emma starts going through the pages, picks up sheet after sheet, scribbling notes in the margins and doodling, at first little figures that don’t look like anything at all, and then fully formed images - and Killian watches for a bit, the way she holds the pen in her hand, the careful bend to her brow and how she licks her bottom lip when she’s really focused.

The air lightens.

After a while, Killian pulls his own book out and starts to write. At first it isn’t much of anything, but he doesn’t struggle with the words and it’s easy to settle into a groove while sitting next to her - and when he pauses in his words, he can reach for her shoulder, for her forearm, and rub gentle circles into her skin.

She looks at him a few times when he does it, eyes shining every time she does.

The air changes around them in the hour that passes, but it’s a good change, something he can find comfort in, and he greedily takes as much of that comfort as he can. Touches her every time he needs a boost, reaches for her neck at one point just to watch her shiver, just to hear her hiss out a breath at his cold hands and shoot accusing eyes at him.

“You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“No,” Killian answers truthfully.

She gets it as she so often does, and shakes her head, turning her smile back down to the sheets before her.

And they continue like that for what feels like hours - what should be hours but Emma’s phone goes off and she turns to smile at him sheepishly, “I have a class now.”

“I won’t be the reason you cut a class,” Killian says.

“You totally would be,” Emma assures him.

He perks at this - forgets that he’s trying not to be eager and scare her away because she leans into him as his words ghost over her skin -

"Well, in that case…”

He grins as she swats at him.

“I’m not cutting a class that I have a test in. Try another day.”

“I will,” he says.

“That’s worrisome,” Emma says.

But she doesn’t sound convinced by that, so he pushes with a voiced, “Is it really?”

“No. I need a break,” she confesses.

“Want me to walk you to class?”

She quiets at that. That same look, the fear that’s been making its appearance all week, comes back in full force, and bloody hell, he just wants to know why.

“It’s okay, love.”

They quiet again, and then she starts, just a little above the silence of the room and the hum of the printer, “If you’re serious about helping with the yearbook, I was planning on working on it next week. We could meet up with Victor and the rest of the committee then.”

He perks up again and says, “Yeah that sounds great.”

“And…” Emma sucks in a breath. “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, oh. I’m stealing Ratched’s car for the night,” he explains.

He jumps to his feet only a second after she does, following her steps away from the table.

“You are not,” Emma says.

“But -”

“That one time she drove me in that death trap was enough for me. I’ll stop by your house and then you can drive mine,” Emma says decidedly.

He knows an argument he won’t win, so he sighs. He’ll fill up her gas before the night is through.

“I can’t wait, by the way,” Emma says.

“Neither can I,” he replies.

He reaches out again, going for her cheek but his fingers sink into her hair instead and it’s too much for him. Tugging her in close, he slants his mouth down over hers and kisses her, soft, slow, deliberate caress of her lips. Questing for -

For that, the way she leans into him, sighs for half a breath against him before she loses herself in it. Allows herself to lose whatever is bothering her and just be with him.

He breaks the kiss after a long while -

“You have class,” he says as much as a reminder to himself as it is to her.

“I do,” she confirms.

She lifts on her toes and leaves a peck on his cheek, says, “Tomorrow at?”

“Seven.”

“Okay, I'll be there at seven,” she says, nodding.

He finds himself struggling in mere seconds, with the twist of her lips and the shuffling of her feet like she doesn’t want to move. He wants her to want to move because he can’t want it for her. Killian’s too busy trying not to kiss her again.

“I’ll see you, then,” he says with difficulty.

That makes her pull completely away and go for her things. He watches her gather them and just as she’s putting the last of her pens away, he says, “And uh - you are aware that I am readily available for texting at all hours.”

“That’s convenient. I’ll keep it in mind.”

He doesn’t know what to say after that, so he says nothing at all, just watches as Emma sweeps out of the room. Even with her gone, Killian still doesn’t manage to sleep. Emma’s still there - right there where he touches his lips, feels her imprint on them, and soaks in the warmth she left behind.

-

He gets a text at one in the morning, rolls over in his sleep to see _Lady Swan_...flashing across his screen.

**1:03: don't reply to this**

There’s a picture attached and Killian might not have been really awake when he reached for his phone, but he laughs himself into full wakefulness at the image of Emma’s locker, the fading Gryffindor badge, the Angelus air freshener fastened to the magnet at the top and the centerpiece, Emma’s flushed face and his mouth on her neck.

“I’m not replying to this,” Killian tells himself and he doesn’t because there’s only one thing he’d type back to that, and you shouldn't say "I love you," over text.


	11. i’ll prepare you for a sick dark world

 

She’s curled her hair.

That’s the first thing Killian notices when Emma pulls her car up to his house. The several long minutes wait has left his gloveless hands a little chilled - it’s colder for the season than usual - but everything warms the moment he notices them bounce as she turns her head from the mirror.

The second thing he notices while she’s climbing out of the car is that she’s fidgeting with her socks, which he would normally have seen later, at some point after he’d picked his chin off the ground long enough to take in all of her in her red leather jacket and flowing skirt, and especially that bare space of her thigh between her socks and her skirt.

And, most importantly, the drop in her own jaw when she says, “You’re wearing…not black.”

He steps down the stairs towards the car, almost at a jog, and stops just a few feet away from her and her open yellow door.

“I thought it’d be a good idea to prove that black and blood aren’t the only colors I look good in,” he says of his blue Henley.

She shakes her head, the ghost of a smile in the way she tilts her head back, searching the darkening sky.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks.

Killian points to where she’s pulling at her black thigh highs again, smirking at the way she quickly drops her hands. The sock begins to fold at the top and he can see her fingers twitch to fix it.

“No, I’m not cold,” she says, giving in and smoothing out the sock again.

“Because I could warm you up,” he offers.

She smacks his hand away as he reaches out for her and says, “Maybe later.”

_Maybe later_ , the worst phrase in human existence. He’s engaging in melodrama, but he can allow himself that when he wants her the way he does.

Emma crooks a finger at him to come closer, so he steps forward to meet her. They fall into each other easily, Emma wrapping her arms around his neck as he fits his around her waist.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

He can’t resist kissing her forehead before he pulls back to look at her and replies, “Well, my first thought was that we’d go on a picnic, but I scratched that because it was too cold to be that kind of romantic. My second thought was unbelievably foolish so I refuse to speak of it. As were my third and fourth.”

Emma shifts in his embrace, pursing her lips together for a beat before she says, “Well, now I’m worried.”

“Quiet, Swan, let me finish.”

He doesn’t say anything, a long enough silence that she drops her chin and says, “Well?”

_Well_.

“Are you wearing shorts underneath that skirt?” he asks.

Her eyebrow tilts upward, a slow contrast to the abruptness of his question.

“ _Why_?” she asks.

“This knowledge is for a good cause,” Killian insists.

She studies his face - he tries to look as serious as possible - and finally answers, “I’m not.”

He forgets his good cause, has to fight himself not to relax his grip on her waist and discover her admission for himself, wants to kiss up the insides of her thigh and -

“Stop thinking about my underwear and tell me why I need shorts,” Emma says.

“If the lady insists.”

Killian makes sure to sound as disappointed as he feels. Flashing her a grin, he inches his hands up a little higher, towards the curves of her breasts. Her breaths come short and he bites back a groan -

( _Focus._ )

“Okay, you can borrow a pair of mine,” he says.

“ _Why_?”

He stares her down. Emma huffs, and untwines her fingers so she can give him a petulant smack to the back of his neck.

“That just makes me even less likely to tell you.”

Her fingers reach up to tug at his hair, and Killian has to take a step back -

( _Goddamnit, focus._ )

It’s the exact kind of pulling he would appreciate in a hundred other different situations where he and Emma aren’t standing out in the cold and -

She’s stepping back too, the corner of her mouth wrinkling sadly. Awkwardness draws its sharp line between them, almost visible in the fading light.

“Alright. Let’s go get those shorts,” Emma says.

Killian clears his throat, knowing he’s only going to make the awkwardness worse, but for the sake of his self-control, he says, “It would probably be better if you changed when we got there? I’ll bring them down, give me a minute alright.”

She doesn’t frown but her expression freezes up. She looks back towards the car and says, “Yeah, I don’t know why I left the car door open, I need to let it heat up again anyway.”

They pull farther apart, Emma stepping towards the car and Killian backing towards his house. He keeps his eyes on her as he steps up the stairs, feeling his way back, but Emma deliberately doesn’t look his way, so he finally turns around and makes it fast like he said he would and gets the clean shorts from the laundry as quickly as possible.

He doesn’t note exactly which ones they are until he’s locking up the door again - and then he squares his shoulders and heads back to the car. Emma’s already made herself comfortable in the passenger seat so he opens the driver’s side and climbs in, handing her the shorts without looking.

“Oh my god,” Emma says.

“Let it out now,” Killian replies, shooting her a glance.

He can’t feel too embarrassed over the “Jones’ Zone” emblazoned on the seat of the shorts when it’s making her laugh so. His cheeks warm, but it’s the caress of her laughter that brings the red, not the heat of embarrassment.

Her laughter subsides until Killian gets the smart idea to say, “Ah, ready to enter the zone?”

“You’re a dork,” she says in between giggles.

“I suppose there are worse things you could have called me,” Killian says

Emma continues to laugh, her curls bouncing with every rise and fall of her chest. It isn’t until he’s pulled out of his driveway that she finally gets ahold of herself - and Killian isn’t sure he’s glad of that because she doesn’t say anything more, just turns to stare out the window.

After too long a moment of this, Killian starts, “How was your day?”

It’s an awkward and stilted start to a conversation, but she only glances at him sideways for a second before she says, “It was fine.” A momentary pause follows before she adds, “Boring. Tiring. And I did an ACT practice during my free period, so actually it wasn’t that fine.”

He glances at her through the mirror to find her smiling at him despite her words. They pull up to a stop sign and no one is behind him, so he lets his eyes stray for a moment during the stop, just long enough for her to say, “But it’s over and now the fun begins.”

“Yes, fun,” he says.

“You promise?” she asks.

Pouting, he says, “When have I ever lied to you?” and as she rolls her eyes in reply, he adds, “I promise that it will be fun.”

“I’m holding you to that. Don’t make me have to make my own fun,” Emma threatens.

“Oh, I don’t know, Emma, I think I’d like the kind of fun you’d make.”

She punches him lightly, obviously not worried about whether he can wince and drive at the same time. Hypothesis tested: yes, he can.

“Speaking of fun…”

(She must have taken her mother’s message of “Try and try until you succeed,” to heart.)

“I’m not telling you. We’ll be there in a little bit,” he says.

Emma looks around again and recognizes the road they’re on with a slight gasp and a wondered question of, “We’re driving out of town?”

“Yeah.”

He considers keeping this bit of information to himself but then she’d probably like her parents to know where she’s going so he says, “We’re heading into Portland.”

“Portland? Why?”

He keeps mum, biting at his lip instead.

“Okay, alright.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she pokes him. _Hard_.

“But what if my parents want to know?”

Wincing again, he says, “Emma.”

“Fine, fine. _Fine_.”

She doesn’t sound fine, but she does sound defeated which is - well, of course, it’s a win for him, at least for this.

“How was your day?” she asks suddenly, her tone changing just as abruptly. She sounds just a bit nervous, and he looks over again, to see her playing with her necklace.

“Classes were boring. Practice was tiring,” he replies.

A quiet falls but isn’t allowed a chance to settle. Emma breaks it quickly.

“Okay, so - I don’t know. This is awkward and I don’t like it,” she says. “Tell me something.”

“Something?” He ruminates over it with a nod of his head. He can guess that she doesn’t want him to mention the something she’s _not_ telling him. He draws those questioning words back even though they’re pressing on him and says instead, “I’m going to visit another school next week. They paid my travel voucher so I’ll be flying out Friday and coming back Sunday.”

“Oh. When did they tell you?” Emma says.

“They called this morning and left a message with Dr. Hopper. He arranged everything for me.”

This college visit is actually something he knows he should be giving quite some more thought to but instead he keeps thinking about MMU and how much he liked it there. He swallows over the lump of hope in his throat because he keeps thinking about MMU, and more so, how Emma’s also applying there. He keeps jumping ahead of himself, but given how Emma’s jumped with him, he can’t be blamed. Not that there’s anything wrong with hoping, which is something he’s still coming to terms with. That it doesn’t have to hurt to hope.

Because he hoped Emma would love him, and having that doesn’t hurt at all.

“So I guess I’ll have that weekend all to myself,” Emma says.

“Yeah.”

He looks at her and finds her staring at him directly when she says, “Cool, I’ll invite my secret boyfriend over.”

“Another one? Emma, I thought I was your one and only.”

He pouts, staring down the row of changing lights.

“One is the loneliest number,” Emma says

“So why not two?” he suggests.

“Why not three, even?” Emma shoots back.

“Make it one hundred,” Killian says.

Emma snorts. “I barely have time for one, let alone one hundred.”

Killian lets out a (mostly) faked sigh of relief, and says, “And I’m that one.”

“Yeah.”

He shoots her a glance. She’s smiling but it is contemplative, her fingers running up and down the chain on her neck. It’s the same look she’s had all week, but it isn’t stricken this time. He thinks - she’s going to tell him. Killian breathes out and turns his focus on the road.

Her voice jolts him out of his focus.

“You’d tell me if you got bit, right?” Emma asks him.

His confusion is enough to make her grin widely. He gets it after a moment ( _zombies_ ) but because he takes too long to confirm or deny, she answers the question for him, “You would. You’d make the heroic sacrifice for me.”

“Heroic?”

He smiles. Emma’s turns into a shy thing that he nearly misses when they hit the highway. He’s glad he doesn’t even though it gets bumpy for a moment as he makes a sharper turn than he meant to.

“Oh come on, you could be my hero, baby,” Emma says.

Killian shakes his head, silent laughter taking him over. He doesn’t get the reference this time. He needs to pick up his nerd game, then. He’s slacking.

She picks up on this - a skill she must have acquired from Ruby because she sits right up in her seat and says, “I'm putting on Enrique.”

“You’re on first name terms?”

“Oh, we go _way_ back.”

-

Ruby had Right Said Fred and Emma had Enrique Iglesias.

And now Ruby has Belle, and Emma has Killian, and she doesn’t get the point of this thought process, but it happened anyway. It’s done. She’s thought it and Killian is slowing the car down, signaling a turn and Emma looks around and sees it immediately.

“An arcade?” Emma asks.

“Look!” Killian points towards the flashing neon sign in the parking lot that he’s waiting to turn into, and okay, she sees exactly where this is going.

“Laser tag,” Emma says. “That’s why I needed shorts.”

“I figured that you’d want to be a full participant in these games and not worry about someone seeing your… cute? Hot? Wonderfully skimpy underwear?” Killian says with a smirk that tells Emma _exactly_ where this is going.

She ignores the obvious attempt to make her roll her eyes and says, “So when you kick my butt I can’t complain?”

“You’ve got it all in one.” He gives her a narrowed glance as he turns into the lot to park in the empty space at the front and says, “Should I be worried?”

“I’m more concerned that your initial thought was that you’d beat me. Killian, my dad is the sheriff.”

“Not this again.”

His tired groan is like music to her ears. Or perhaps, that’s Enrique serenading them for the hundredth time in the background. Emma reaches over and shuts off her docked iPod.

“My dad’s the sheriff. Graham is a hunter. Firearms are kind of their thing and they _love_ paintball. Laser tag is a piece of cake compared to that,” Emma says with a flippant smile.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and is the first one out of the car. Killian follows after.

Leaning against the closed car door, he says, “Paintball, eh?” He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“That is a bad idea,” Emma says.

She can feel her sock folding back down, and she reaches for the umpteenth time to roll it back up, knowing that it’s only going to fold again when she walks.

Stupid socks.

Her thighs are a little chilly.

“Why? You don’t enjoy it?” he asks.

She looks to see Killian’s eyebrow lifted in serious question.

Walking towards him and the arcade’s front doors, she explains, “I love it, but I don’t want to permanently injure you with a bunch of paint blasts to the head, so don’t tempt me.”

“I didn’t know permanent injury was so tempting,” he drawls sarcastically.

“It’s not. I - do they have pizza here?”

“Better,” Killian says as he holds the door open for her.

Emma nods her agreement as she looks at the food stand at the entrance of the arcade. A freaking taco stand that actually looks -

“Yes, real tacos, and they’re actually rated best in the city. I did my research, Emma,” Killian says proudly.

“I -” She chokes back her initial exclamation with difficulty, an aborted sound that only makes her, “You're awesome,” ring falsely.

He doesn’t mention it, but Emma sort of wishes he would just because she knows that it’s the easiest of things that she isn’t talking about. At least a joking, but mostly serious, “I love you,” is easier to clear up than a serious (and even more serious than that) conversation that she isn’t looking forward to, but that she still needs to have.

But -

Emma didn’t want to think about it just yet. Sure, it weighed on her mind pretty heavily when he left her to get the shorts, but she’d recovered enough in that brief time that she didn’t think about it (much) during the drive, and that’s what she needs right now: a quick break to recover.

“Hey, I’m going to find a bathroom and change into these shorts,”

“I’ll join you,” he whispers conspiratorially, with a waggle of his eyebrows that’s nothing short of endearing.

“You will not,” Emma says with a shake of her head.

She looks around, spots the bathroom, and waves him off with a smile that fades as soon as she’s behind the closed bathroom door and can reasonably let out all the tension that she’s been holding in her form.

She needs to tell him.

But right now is wrong. Right now, she just wants to have fun and be with her _boyfriend_. Play laser tag and eat tacos and laugh and just - that’s exactly what she’s going to do, even if she has to fight this ringing in her head every step of the way. She’s been doing well enough so far. She just has to take a moment like this to gather herself and then go back out there.

She’s halfway to ripping open the door again when she realizes she still hasn’t taken her skirt off. Laughing eases the tension a bit, too, and she enters a stall, strips out of her skirt with difficulty, rolls her socks down to a reasonable height for running around in darkly lit arcades and slips into his shorts. They’re comfortable. A little too long and the “Jones' Zone” written on the butt in green glitter is definitely a Tink Original, but they’ll do.

And maybe she doesn’t mind having that on, or wearing her _boyfriend’s_ clothes. Sue her. She’s only human. She can only hold back so much when she leaves the bathroom and he immediately looks at her like the shorts haven’t thrown off her whole outfit, like they’ve only improved it - and he’s already looked at her with those bright eyes, seeing them again only makes her shiver.

“You look chic,” he compliments.

“Are we putting this in the car or…?”

“They have a locker,” Killian says, pointing her towards the back.

Emma steps ahead of him. It’s not very crowded, but there’s a hum of children in far off rooms and music pumping through speakers that seem a great distance away.

“This place is really big,” Emma notes.

“Quite a few dark corners, perfect for darker deeds,” Killian murmurs.

Emma really isn’t sure whether he’s trying to seduce her with these lines or just tease her to the point that she seduces him in retaliation.

“Please, start your criminal career on someone else’s watch.”

“Start? You underestimate me. And you know damn well those are not the deeds I was talking about,” he says.

“I know ‘damn well’ that you better keep your hands to yourself no matter how good I look in these shorts,” she teases because yeah, she’ll play his game. Seduce him in retaliation.

(Even though it might be a little more for her benefit than his, to hear his groan as he comes up beside her.)

His lips brush her cheek before she realizes that it’s happening and then Killian’s smiling.

“I didn’t use my hands.”

Emma's cheek burns where he touched her. She clenches her hands and says, “Go pay. I am _so_ ready to end you.”

As he’s doing that, Emma takes the locker key from the barely-older-than-them-teen Killian’s paying. She can feel the dude’s eyes on her as she turns, but ignores it in favor of stripping out of her leather jacket. It’s too warm in here to be wearing that any longer. She stuffs her leather jacket and her skirt into the locker. She isn’t very neat about it, and so isn’t surprised when Killian comes to put his stuff in the locker and takes hers out, folding them neatly and placing them on top of his.

“Neat freak,” she murmurs affectionately.

Because that’s what it is, affection flooding her when she watches his fingers linger on the leather of her jacket.

“The red suits you,” he says.

He closes the locker, and slips the key in the back of his jean pocket.

“So, I’ll be team red, and you’ll be team blue,” she says, kicking at his toes.

“Actually, our laser colors are green and orange. Sorry, darling,” he says with the kind of half-apologetic tone that makes Emma want to wring his neck.

(And if it’s mainly because he gives that half-smirk and little tilt of his head that makes her heart flutter, well -)

(Moving right along…)

“Green for me,” Emma says. “I did fake-tanning once. Orange does _not_ suit me.”

“I’m sure that you're mistaken, but the fake tan doesn’t seem like you at all,” Killian says.

He looks honestly perplexed, which Emma gives him credit for. It _is_ very unlike her.

“Ruby wanted to get the California look. Well, hopefully she’ll be able to get it the natural way. Her and Belle.”

Emma smiles and Killian does too.

“That would be lovely, yes.”

There’s a momentary pause. Emma bites back the question but it swims to the surface despite that.

“Do you think -?”

Cutting her off, Killian says, “I know they will. If anyone can do it, it’s those two. I’d be scared to turn Ruby down.”

“I’d be scared to turn Belle down actually. Ruby’s better at fighting her friends’ fights than her own. I actually think she prefers it that way. It’s easier to face the things that are bothering other people than face your own. But she’s brave, you know, she doesn’t _like_ to face those things but she will if she has to, and she’s had to a few times. She’s strong."

He stares at her for a long moment.

“Sorry, that was a whole thing that just sort of came out,” Emma says, embarrassed by her random spiel.

“Ruby is your best friend. Telling me her whole life story comes with the territory. You know -”

With the territory.

The territory of being with Emma.

She draws closer into his space, almost close enough to lean on him as he starts to walk them towards their rented room.

Grabbing his arm, Emma squeezes it and says, “I think they’ll make it, too. I hope so. They just seem so happy being together, it would just be…terrible to see them not be together. Even if it’s just a school separation. And Ruby can complain like nobody’s business. I can already hear her moaning in my ear.”

“Emma, Emma, _Emma_ how can I _live_?” Killian asks in a really bad intonation of Ruby’s voice. She’ll give him something for effort, but in practice it sounds terrible.

Picking up what she supposes is her gun off the table before the closed doors to the “ring,” she says, “You don’t have to. I’m not setting phasers to stun, Killian.”

“Shoot to kill, then? Is that how it is?” Killian asks.

Emma nods. “Bang, bang, I shot you down,” she hums.

“I actually know that one,” Killian says.

“I should hope so. Alright, alright. Seriously, Killian, don’t feel too bad when I kick your ass. I have a competitive streak a mile long, and I’m used to going up against Ruby, so…”

“Bang, bang, I hit the ground?” he supplies.

She doesn’t have to do the finger guns this time, just lifts her gun and raises her eyebrow in challenge.

-

Breathing quietly, Emma takes her first two steps out from behind the pillar. This place is fucking huge and that only makes her objective more difficult to accomplish, that objective being lasering him out of existence.

She spins around at the sound of something dropping behind her, breathes a sigh of relief when she realizes that it’s just the soundtrack of moving feet and laser shots that Killian opted to have playing in the background for extra difficulty. Emma breathes again as another sound drops down behind her and then she’s taking quicker steps towards the next pillar.

She doesn’t hear him but she does hear her jacket buzzing as she gets hit, its glow nearly blinding for a second.

Fucking sneak.

He’s sneaky, he’s fast, but Emma’s very good at reacting and she gets off two shots before he can disappear behind the array of giant cubes. Emma signed the waiver saying she can climb them and won’t sue if she falls and dies - and it would be a good place to attack him from, but she isn’t sure about how these boots will hold her up on the climb. Sighing, she frowns and runs a hand through her hair.

2 to 1. That’s not bad so far, but she’d much prefer it 2-0.

Racing off towards the back, she tries to think of a plan that doesn’t involve breaking her neck to shoot him from up high. It’s just laser tag, she knows this, but her reputation and pride are at stake. As is his, and that’ll make victory all the sweeter. He needs a kick to his ego and badly -

She loses a moment when her mind takes the simple step from busting his giant head down a notch to the way he falters sometimes, underneath all that bravado. The way that she sees sometimes when he’s unsure about her and about them. The way he faltered - the way it hurt when he did.

She loses a moment thinking of the small part of her that’s scared this won’t end up the way she wants it to, the part of her that thinks this will be another photo booth if she tells him.

“No,” she says aloud.

She loses a moment and Killian takes it -

“Oh yes, Emma,” he says.

She’s so glad he gave her the shorts because she hits the floor without baring her ass to whatever camera system they have in this too dark and foggy room and shoots Killian before he can voice his surprise. Shoots him three times before he can run down behind the next couple of pillars.

Her knees and thighs burn, but it’s so worth it.

A little more fog fills the room and Emma hears his laughter echo everywhere.

“You’re making this too easy!” Emma shouts at him.

“Am I?”

He hits her twice from behind and moves faster this time so she isn’t able to hit him the way she had the first time. Frustrated, she breaks after him. Her boots skid on the floor and she nearly face plants except Killian’s hands are there to catch her, his face swimming up at her from the fog, his gun reflecting up from the floor.

“Please don’t injure yourself over me,” Killian says.

And he sounds so sincere about it that she almost feels bad about backing off shakily, smiling, and murmuring a “Thank you,” just before she shoots him four more times in the chest.

“I left you one shot. You still have a fighting chance!” Emma says.

He’s practically cackling behind her.

“That’s clever. Ruthless, too. You’re a natural at this, and now I’m growing concerned that this whole dating me thing is some kind of covert operation you’re running.”

“What would be the point of that?” Emma asks, moving in between pillars, trying to keep his voice just far away enough that she can get him before he gets her.

“Weakening me so that _they_ can move in for the kill,” he calls.

Quietly. Too quietly.

“Who is they?”

She can hear his shrug when he shouts, “You tell me. This is your operation.”

“Operation what? Operation Swan? Operation Jones?”

She turns at the sound of lasers hitting before her. Her jacket doesn’t blind her though. Stupid soundtrack.

“Operation thanks for the fighting chance,” he says while he nails her in the back twice.

“Oh fuck,” she curses and makes sure to keep her footing as she tails after him this time, shooting wildly, just wanting to hit the bastard in the back.

Operation: Destroy.

Her shots all go wide but she hears a buzzing as he turns back and hits her. She stops running and raises her gun. He looks at her in surprise and that’s all she needs to hit him with one right in the dead center of his suit.

The automatic victory lights go up and Emma smirks.

_Bang, bang, I shot you down._

“That was slightly terrifying,” Killian says.

“Round two?” Emma says.

She raises her gun, but he gets off the first shot and well, Emma can’t fault him for that.

Round two it is.

-

Ten rounds and six bitter losses later (somehow; she still isn’t sure how she _lost_ ), Emma ends up in her skirt again, with her socks rolled back up to thigh-high heights and her shirt clinging to her skin with sweat. She doesn’t even mind it or the raw, reddened state of her knees and the burn in her limbs because she just downed five mini tacos in a row and Killian’s on his eighth - and they haven’t spoken since Emma cursed him for defeating her, but it’s so comfortable like this. Nor does she mind their silence as they make their way back to her car or how it remains as they drive out of the parking lot, back the way they came.

Not until Killian nudges her in the side and says, “I wanted to take you somewhere else. Is that okay with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” she asks.

“It’s late? You have a curfew to meet? You’re tired of my company?” He plays nervous for a moment, eyes wide and mouth downcast. “Are you tired of my company?”

Emma wants to hit him.

Seriously, she already loves him, what more does he want?

By the devious tilt to his smile, it could be anything - plenty of things that make her shift in her seat and turn away from him slightly. She glances out the window as she says, “Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going or is everything going to be a surprise?”

“Have my surprises let you down yet?”

“No,” Emma sighs. “I trust in your judgement.”

“I know,” he says.

The urge to quip back ‘Then why did you ask?’ is strong. Winding her fingers around her necklace, she remains quiet instead.

She didn’t mind their silence before this, but speaking of trust (speaking of _trust_ …) Emma can’t help but think that she _trusts_ him, and all she wants to do is tell him but it doesn't feel like the right moment.

She turns towards the window instead, closes her eyes and drifts for a long while - longer than she thinks she does because she only wakes as she feels the car slowing beneath her. Emma shoots up in her seat, curious.

“Why are we stopping?” she asks.

She looks out the window and answers her own question because they’re on the same road they stopped on last Saturday, the same place where the rainbow spilled out on their path like some kind of magical beacon of hopefulness -

Or _whatever_. That’s her mother she’s channeling with thoughts like that. Soon, she’ll be using unicorn stickers without the irony.

“The moon looks positively enchanting here, doesn’t it?” he asks - and where he was faking uncertainty before, Emma can see the genuine nervousness to his smile and his twitching fingers on the wheel.

“I can’t really see it,” Emma says by way of answer, not even bother to peek outside the window again. Instead, she unbuckles her seatbelt and says, “I think the view is better outside.”

He looks visibly relieved at that, following her lead and says, “You’re right. Come on.”

Emma gets out of the car, shivering at the breeze whipping around them. The socks and skirt were as bad of an idea as the curls now lying flat to her neck, sweated out while facing him in the ring. She feels momentarily bitter over wasting her work for nothing. Like Killian, she’s a sore loser figuratively and literally - her knees won’t shut up about just how sore they are.

“I thought we could take some pictures?” Killian asks.

“What are you putting together a photo book?” Emma quips.

“Something like that. I need some pictures for my yearbook page. Proof that Emma Swan agreed to a real date with me,” he jokes.

Emma grins. “You should caption it that, too. I think it just fits the character count.”

“Really?” he says.

She walks around the car and hops up on the hood. Wincing at the cold on her bare thighs, she slides up until she’s comfortable, her legs hanging off the edge, her hands propping her up.

Killian joins her, setting himself right beside her within easy reach - which he takes advantage of quickly, pulling her against him.

“Look,” he says, pointing up at the sky.

“Is this where you explain all the constellations to me?” Emma says.

“Do you want me to? To be quite honest, Emma, I was just trying to distract you a moment,” he says.

She turns into him, confused. “Distract me from what -”

He answers her question with silence, which _is_ answer enough when his nose brushes hers. She tilts her head up, making it easier for him to kiss her. His lips are warm. Dry from the cold, but it’s a good kiss despite that, a kiss that she leans into further, reaching up her hand to claim his neck for her own, bringing him closer - so close that there’s not a breath that isn’t shared between them, that every move they make is together, some kind of perfect harmony…

Emma draws back, nearly banging their heads together in her haste.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says.

He looks a little dazed, but the moment passes and he shakes his head. His jaw tics and she can tell he’s trying not to sound upset, but his voice too rough to be explained by just the cold when he says, “I know something has been bothering you all week.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

She looks away, indulging in her weakness for a moment. She hears him choke on a frustrated breath.

“Maybe we should have waited. I could have waited, Emma," he says.

Emma startles at that. Grabbing his hand, she squeezes tightly.

“It isn’t that,” she says in a hurried whisper.

He still isn’t looking at her. Emma sucks in a breath -

“It isn’t that,” she repeats, her tone firm this time.

His breath catches, and he turns on a sigh, but it doesn’t look like relief. Curiosity widens his gaze. Killian shifts closer, but he doesn’t reach out to wrap her under his arm again. Keeping their space even in the way he doesn’t thread their fingers together even though she’s still holding his hand.

Emma’s stomach clenches, finding her resolve. She doesn’t want any space between them. Not anymore.

“So what is it?” he asks.

“It’s -”

She struggles with the wording. She isn’t nervous exactly, but she goes with bluntness anyway. Rip off the Band-Aid. There’s an elephant in the room and why should she ignore it?

Why should she keep making him look at her with those careful eyes?

“I wasn’t exactly a virgin,” Emma says.

He stays silent for a moment.

“You know me, Emma.”

(She does.)

“I don’t care about that.”

(He doesn’t.)

“So, tell me why this bothered you so much.”

Killian finally moves his hand so they’re actually entwined with his.

He’s _with_ her. That’s all Emma needs.

“I told you I didn't have such a great 10th grade either, and I never explained why and it’s because I didn’t want to think about it. I’m really good at pretending that something isn’t wrong. Excellent at it, actually, I should add that on my apps.”

Killian chuckles and moves in closer which Emma is grateful for - and the way he doesn’t look away from her; that she’s grateful for, too.

“I fell in love in the 10th grade,” she says.

Killian nods.

“Neal Vidar. I met him at a party that Victor threw for his younger brother. I didn’t really like him at first, but he grew on me. He was funny. He was nice. And he really seemed to like me, like instantly. It was a bit overwhelming, now that I’m thinking about it.”

She sighs. “I don’t like to think about it, but I want to tell you.”

“So, tell me, sweetheart. I’m right here. I’m listening,” Killian says.

Emma continues, “We kept meeting at parties and we started dating, I guess. We’d spend the whole time just talking and sometimes he’d call me afterwards. Sometimes he wouldn’t. But he was always sweet whenever we met, and I got really comfortable. I kissed him first.”

She takes a breath. It’s so hard to word this the way she wants, feels like she’s rambling, but Killian keeps watching her so intently that the words keep coming -

“I kissed him first and then we’d spend less time talking. More time drinking and making out and it was nice, and I woke up one day, ready to go to a party and everything spun because I was in love with Neal, and I was going to see him and tell him -”

Killian’s eyes flash at that, a blink longer than the one before. Emma breathes in again. She has no idea what he’s thinking and it worries her a bit but she keeps talking anyway.

“And I did. I told him and he said it back, and it was the happiest I’d ever felt. I was on cloud fucking nine. But - there was another party after that, and another one after that. And we’d kiss and I’d tell him I loved him, and he always said it back, but - he never said it first. It was a stupid thing to bother me, but it did and I just thought that I had to figure out some way to fix it because there must’ve been something wrong, right?”

Killian makes a noise like he’s going to respond but Emma shakes her head a tiny amount and goes on.

“So, I thought maybe I wasn’t proving it enough because actions speak louder than words and all that and if I loved him - the next party, I wore my nicest dress, got myself drunk before I even left the house, just enough to be buzzed when I got to Portland, to that slumber party we had? You know the one that -”

Killian makes another noise, supplying before she even gets the chance, “The cops came. Emma, what the hell happened?”

The fear tinging his voice is what gets her. She feels tears prickling at her eyes, but they don’t fall. She doesn’t feel sad, exactly, but the look in his eyes is too much. Emma should be used to this - to him _caring_ so much, but it’s hard to get used to that, to the way his hand holds her, so tight and careful.

(The wind picks up; she barely feels it.)

“I got really drunk is what happened. We all did. And Neal and I kissed and I thought, this is the moment. I could prove it to him so he’d say it first, so he’d mean it just as much as I did. I took him to the host’s parents’ bedroom and I told him that I wanted to have sex.”

She has to take another breath, struggling to find the words again.

“He told me he loved me as he was taking my dress off, and I loved him so much then that I just - But I couldn’t - He was ready. I wasn’t. Physically, I mean. It wasn’t his fault or anything, but there was nothing going. And it hurt, but I didn’t really care about that because all I could think was that if I - If I loved him I would’ve been able to do it. I should’ve. I loved him.”

She _loved_ him, but it feels nothing like this, with Killian looking at her, his expression growing tighter.

“I felt so stupid and awful, and he said it was fine, but I could tell that he was frustrated and I didn’t blame him for that but it hurt so much that I couldn’t do it. I started to cry, it was awful, I was so drunk and he was rubbing against me and none of it felt good at all, especially when he finally came. He was embarrassed about it, I think, but he said it would be fine and sent me off to the bathroom.”

Emma doesn’t feel sad exactly.

Not really.

But revisiting that moment; it hurts. A dull ache, without the clarity of the real moment, without the sharp pain in her chest and the burning where Neal touched her, without the tears she couldn’t seem to stop and the nausea turning her stomach.

It hurts, but she pushes past that and says, “I don’t know how long I sat there, but I was still in the bathroom when we heard the sirens, and he was gone when I came out.”

Killian makes a sound, something like a growl, torn between anger and something worse, something stronger.

“He left you alone.”

Emma shrugs. Somehow it feels better - hurts less to have Killian angry beside her. Angry for her.

She never got the chance to be angry. Hurt. Sad. Broken-hearted. She felt all of that, but she never got the chance to be _angry._

Never thought she deserved that until -

Until Killian.

“I didn’t see him again afterwards. He never called or came by. He had my number, and he had my address but - I guess I wasn’t worth it. At least I thought so until you brought Milah to Storybrooke.”

The furrow in Killian’s brow shifts into confusion. “Milah?”

“Milah Gold… Milah Vidar,” Emma says.

Emma quiets him again as he startles. She says, “Neal watched me the whole time Milah was giving her statement, but he never said a word. Didn’t even apologize for leaving. I mean, I understood then, why he ran when the cops came. He and Milah were technically supposed to be in hiding from Gold, but you’d think he’d tell me that? I told him _everything_.”

She told him _everything_ , and she _never_ got the chance to be angry that he told her nothing. Left her with nothing but having to rationalize his actions to herself so she could feel -

“So, then I just told myself it didn’t matter, and I moved on.”

So she could _move_ on.

Emma supposes she never knew what that really felt like until now; the tears don’t prickle at her eyes anymore but for the first time, it feels like she’s cried enough, has no more left to spill over this and over Neal.

“My mom created the safe sex drive because of me. She didn’t want the same thing to happen to someone else.”

Emma doesn’t feel embarrassed telling him this, not when he’s holding her so tight.

“Your mom loves you a lot,” Killian says.

“Yeah, she does.”

She quiets, but when she feels herself start to lean into him, start to lose steam, she draws back. His eyes fly to hers - his mouth closed as he waits for her.

(Does he ever gets as tired of waiting for her as she does of waiting for herself?)

(She’s so tired of waiting.)

“Killian, I wanted to tell you this because you know, I never thought about him when I was with you. I didn’t think of any of this, not until I started to realize that -”

“That what?” he prods.

“That I was scared. Not just of Ruby, but scared of everything I was feeling.”

The final part.

She lets out a breath.

“When I told you I loved you, after we -” She doesn’t know why she’s blushing at this, not when these words are so important, but she can’t control it.

Killian lifts his hand to her cheek, and brushes her hair away, his fingers lingering on her face.

“I told you that because I was still scared. Not that I didn’t mean it, but because I meant it back then too. But when I tried with him it was because I was unsure of how he felt. With you, it was because I was sure, because I know - I’m sure you feel the same.”

(Are you sure that you’re sure that you’re sure?)

There’s more than a hint of dimples in his cheeks.

(Emma’s sure.)

“So, I wanted to make it clear that I’m telling you this now not because I’m scared, but because I’m not. I love you, Killian,” she says.

He breaks into a grin so wide that Emma’s sure ( _sure_ ) it’s _actually_ going to break his face and says, “And I’ve loved you since you told me to stop being a baby and dragged me back to that tree house, Emma.”

“ _Dragged_ you?” Emma laughs.

“There was some dragging involved, yes,” he says.

She rolls her eyes to the sky, catches sight of the light reflecting off the blue in his eyes as he stares down at her and pauses as he presses his forehead to hers.

Emma has to shut her eyes for a moment - _just a second, just a heartbeat’s worth of a moment_ \- and he waits for her. He must not get tired of it because he _waits_ that small moment for her to reopen her eyes and look at him before he touches his hand to her cheek.

His fingers are so warm.

“I love you, Emma,” he says.

Emma’s _sure_ that her smile is actually going to break her face, but luckily for her it doesn’t get the chance to do more than catch the wind in her dimples when he moves in for a kiss that is anything but sweet; _loving_ but in a way that makes her squeeze her thighs together and pant into his mouth as his hands move down from her cheek, pull her into him so they’re nearly falling off the hood of the car.

“Emma,” he says against her lips.

“It’s cold,” she says.

She tries to warm herself by kissing him again but he draws his head back, looking at her with wild eyes. She moans plaintively - what she tries to make plaintive but it might just be a moan because she sees him swallow sharply and all she can think of is feeling that motion for herself while she kisses up his throat.

“Pictures?” he says, voice just shy of breathless.

“Pictures?” she echoes.

“We stopped for pictures - your shirt’s falling.”

He says the last part with his eyes dipped to her chest and she pushes back off him and the car, falling to her feet on the ground.

“I said it was cold,” she says like it’s some kind of excuse.

“Right. So, let’s forget the pictures. Let’s just -”

He climbs off the car, scratching at the back of his neck as he adjusts himself. Emma’s skirt whips up in the wind and she realizes her sock has fallen again. Struggling to keep her skirt down while fixing her sock is an effort too much so she taps him on the shoulder instead and says, “Back to your place?”

“An excellent idea. We can warm up there.”

Killian’s already buckled in by the time Emma climbs back in the car. She fixes her sock, feeling his eyes on her as she does it, but neither of them say a word.

He finally pulls away from the curb and starts back down the street and Emma glances up at the moon outside the window. It would’ve been a nice picture if her body wasn’t humming with electricity in search of an outlet - a nice way of saying she really wants to climb him like a tree right now.

The drive to his place is so tense that Emma doesn’t even attempt looking at him because she might _actually_ climb him like a tree and that could lead to a whole host of problems that she finds herself listing just to keep her head straight.

One, there’s the fact that they’d totally go careening off the road.

Two, if he manages to pull over before then, then there’s the chance that someone could spot them.

Three, the likelihood of said person spotting them being her father is too high to risk.

Much too high to risk.

Don’t risk it.

She keeps this up for so long that she only notices she’s at his house when he murmurs, “Ratched’s not home.”

“That’s good,” she replies.

“Say you want to come in,” he says.

“I want to come in,” she says.

“Oh, thank god.”

She laughs, but she feels just as relieved as he does when he turns off the car and hands her the keys so she can lock the doors on her way out.

And then the relief passes, burning out when she meets him at his door - and he glances at her from where he’s unlocking it. Everything burns out when his eyes drag over her lips and she shifts on the balls of her feet, seconds away from reaching out.

Only seconds away -

Killian grabs her first.

-

He isn’t sure how he manages to get Emma inside the house or up the stairs or even on his bed because somewhere in between her confession and her smile, he lost himself. He lost himself in her, in the space she offered to him - the space where she once kept the pain of Neal close. Killian hates him, will probably hate him more when he doesn't have Emma giggling beneath him on the bed, urging him forward -

Killian will probably hate him more when he finds himself again, but that’ll need to be after he addresses this: Emma’s hands fisted around the ends of his shirt that she just tugged out of his jeans.

“Someone’s impatient,” he says.

“I’m horny,” she corrects.

She realizes at the same moment that she says it -

“Okay, yes, I’m impatient.”

She winds her fingers into his shirt, definitely wringing it beyond it repair, but when Emma flutters her eyelashes, laving her bottom lip with her tongue and says, “You don’t mind, do you?” Killian forgets to care.

He minds a lot of things, this included, but only in the sense that he’s losing his mind in the face of her small smile as she slides back along the bed, pulling him with her.

Hovering over her, Killian tugs her hands up from the ends of his shirt. Her hands aren’t that much smaller than his but they fit inside his so comfortably that the edge he’s found himself on becomes a little less precarious - it gentles for just the second it takes for her eyes to widen and her lips to part with words that she doesn’t say.

Killian drops her hands after a moment and moves towards the ends of her shirt. The V-neck keeps dipping to reveal the pink lace of a rose printed bra and as much as he enjoys this game of peek-a-boo, he prefers to see the way the pattern prints across her breasts instead.

Emma moves with him, drawing her arms up over her head so he can pull her shirt up with him. He doesn’t get long to take in just how well her breasts fill out the bra because he’s distracted by the way she reaches out for him, even though she seems to think better of the move right after she makes it, pulling her hands back towards her skirt instead and going for the clasp on the side.

Killian makes no moves to help, just watching her as she fumbles with it. Her eyebrows shoot up in excitement, a smile crossing her face when she finally unclasps it and shimmies her skirt down her hips.

“Matching,” he comments as he takes the skirt off from around her ankles.

Emma blushes - “I wanted to look cute,” she admits.

“It’s very…”

Flowers are cute, he supposes, but not when they’re hugging her chest and her hips like they’re imprinted on her skin. Not when they’re sheer enough that he can just make out the pink of her nipples beneath the cotton.

“Yeah,” he finishes.

She moves her hands for her socks, and Killian pushes her hands away, smoothing them back up her thighs.

“Keep the socks on.”

“Are you serious?” she says

“They look lovely on you,” he says. He grins. “And I’m just appreciating the effort you took.”

She opens her mouth to, no doubt, argue but Killian has better ideas, distracting her by dragging the cups of her bra down beneath her breasts. Emma gasps as they catch on her nipples, and curses when he moves his head down, dragging his tongue over them, licking and laving at the quickly hardening peaks. He swirls his tongue around her breast and then starts to suck, sometimes a little harder than he probably should but Emma only breathes harder when he does, so he doesn’t stop.

It’s only when Emma starts to push at him that Killian reluctantly pulls away, resting against her chest and canting his head up to look at her. Her eyes are backlit by a deeper green than normal - or maybe he’s seeing things in the darkness of his room, too dazed by feeling of her breasts against his cheek.

“Please, don’t do that. Your beard itches,” she says.

He draws his face up against her nipple, and her expression says something completely different than her mouth did, her eyes fluttering shut and her breath panting out. He bites his lip as he repeats the motion and she shifts, knees banging against him as she tries to -

Killian pulls away, can’t take just watching her any longer. His hands are at his belt, and he fumbles like she did, laughs as he realizes that he’s moving too fast to actually take them off.

He looks at Emma as his fingers finally start to work properly, and then they become useless again because she’s sliding her hand over her belly, down to her underwear. He slows his movements. Her hand doesn’t go beneath them, but she places her palm atop the covered curls and rubs her fingers in slow circles over herself, twisting the fabric up, making his stomach twist with need at the sight.

With her bra still hanging beneath her breasts, her fingers on her clit, and those socks still rolled up to her thighs, she looks some kind of decadent treat.

Killian calms himself by going to work on his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, and then moving for his jeans, drawing back from her so he can take them off. He tries to keep his eyes on her but he misses her for a spell as he’s trying to drag his shirt out from the corner of the bed he threw it in, and when he finds her again, she’s taken off her bra and tossed it to the floor with the rest of her clothes.

Including her underwear.

But those socks, she’s kept them on and it’s really fucking him up the way they look on her.

“What?” she asks.

“I need a condom,” he says.

“Yeah, you do,” she agrees.

He’s there and back, a condom in hand in moments, which Emma plucks the condom out of his hands as he climbs back on the bed, positioning himself between her now fully spread thighs.

Killian starts at her ankle, running his finger up the length of the sock all the way to her inner thigh, where the light hair is standing on end, goosebumps pebbling there as well as her arms. Emma shivers as his gaze draws between her legs.

He wants to eat her out, wants to taste the sweetness of her on his tongue - and she’s glistening with it, so wet and inviting, begging for him to place kisses there until she’s riding his face with those little helpless twisting motions of her hips -

But that isn’t what she wants, and when he looks up at her face and she tears the condom open with her teeth, he knows that she’s going to have her way. Knows it even more certainly when she reaches for him, her hands moving over his cock with too slow movements. She rolls the condom on, but her hands don’t stop stroking over his length.

“This is one way to be led with your dick,” Killian says as she pulls him towards her.

The joke falls flat as he falls atop her, held up on one arm to keep from crushing her to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” she hums, tilting her hips up to try to make it work, but all it does is make him brush against her, too much teasing for the heat driving beneath his skin.

Killian grabs her wrist and she loosens her grip on him, hand falling away when he releases her. He uses his free hand to tilt her hips up more, until he isn’t just brushing against her but sinking into her, almost the perfect angle to slide into her in one smooth motion.

He takes his time with it, though, drawing out the sensation of entering her, of stretching her open, her heat claiming him inch by inch. By the time he hits bottom, he’s drawn enough tension in his spine that he knows he can’t be soft with it, dragging all the way out of her and pushing back inside.

“Oh, that feels good,” Emma says.

“You don’t say?”

She doesn’t have to say because her walls spasm around him. She’s so much closer than he is, already tightening with her approaching orgasm.

Tilting up her hips, she wraps her legs around him, meeting his thrusts, trying to take more of his length into her each time he surges forward - it’s rather unhelpful because it makes his motions unsteady, makes him closer to coming than he should be.

He wants this to last, but he’s so wound up and Emma’s freckled breasts are bouncing beneath him, her nipples kiss reddened, her belly rolling in tight every time he pulls out - and that’s nothing on how her ruined curls circle her neck or her expression, on the way she keeps looking down at where their bodies are joined like it’s -

Killian looks down, too and he understands, it’s just on top of the feeling of her, it’s something to see how he fills her completely - to see their hips meet when he buries himself inside her, see her wetness dripping on his length when he draws back. It makes his cock twitch, the veins jump and he feels it, _sees_ it.

Emma does, too, moaning and clenching around him. Her hand comes up to his neck.

“I love you,” she says - “I mean. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Happy accident,” he says, and falls down atop her, just enough that he can press his lips against her when he says, “I love you, too.”

The kiss is desperate, messy and ends the moment her hand slips down between their bodies. Her knuckles rub hard against her belly as she rubs her clit in faster and faster circles.

She practically punches him drawing back, but he doesn’t feel it, just feels her growing so tight that it steals his breath better than any punch could. Steals a lot more than that because the pleasure draws sharp and hot. It takes two more short jerks of hips before he’s coming, too.

He pulls out of her quickly, too sensitive to remain in that heat because he knows - given the chance, he’ll start riding her again. He sits up on his knees to take the condom off, for once managing to not make a complete mess of it.

“I didn’t think that was an actual thing,” Emma says.

“What was an actual thing?”

“Simultaneous orgasms,” she says. “Like - okay, the likelihood of that is really low in normal sexual situations and -”

“Happy accident,” Killian says again.

He feels the blush rise on his skin, but he’s already red so he’s sure it just blends, just as hers does when he strokes his finger along her knee where her sock’s slipped down beneath it. She’s going to have bruises from all the falls she took, but for now, they just look a darker shade of pink than the rest of her.

“You mean, you didn’t actually intend to come?” she asks, twisting underneath his touch, sinking her hips into the bed.

She’s doing those little twisting motions and the urge to taste her is nearly overwhelming.

“Do you want me to tell you that you feel too damn good, that feeling _you_ come is too much for me?”

“Please don’t,” Emma says.

She sounds so needy that Killian moves his hand from her knee, moves forward so he can slide his fingers through her damp curls, down her slit, and gently work two into her at the same time. She soaks his fingers and clenches up even before he sinks knuckle deep.

“Killian, fucking hell, please,” she says.

“You want me again?” he says, sure it sounds less like the purr he intends and more desperate.

She speaks in a hurried whisper. “I have to go home. I don’t have time to wait. Curfew, my parents and I have to get up early tomorrow -”

“Those are all good reasons for me not to have sex with you again, but not good reasons for me not to make you come. You’re so close, it won’t take long at all,” he says, moving his fingers faster.

“You’ll be happy to know that you’re right - so right, oh god,” Emma says.

He strokes her walls none too gently, watching her face for that spot - _there_ \- her face screws up again as he strokes her insistently, mouth parting in heavy breaths. Her body seizes up, hips tilting off the bed and driving him even deeper when she comes again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she says.

“You have to get home,” he reminds her.

Reminds himself, actually, because he can feel himself growing hard again. He removes his fingers - can’t resist stroking her just one more time to feel her tense up again - the next time they have _actual_ time, he’s going to make her come until she can’t feel her legs.

(It’s a goal he’s had in mind for a long while.)

“Let me go get something to clean us up,” he says.

“Wait a moment,” she says.

“Hmm?”

He shifts back down beside her, which is a bad idea on all fronts because Emma needs to go home, and he could spend the rest of the night and tomorrow holding her in his arms. Killian knows that once he gets comfortable he won’t want to give it up.

“Thank you - for a ‘fun’ date,” she says.

Killian moves in closer, understanding her unsaid words. Softly, he says, “Thank you for telling me. I know you were worried, and telling you that you didn’t have to be isn’t going to change that, but you _can_ tell me anything.”

She nods, her dimples soft indentations in her skin. If he kisses her right now, he _won’t_ let her leave, but if he doesn’t kiss her…

Emma says, “Anything?”

He’s so close to kissing her.

“Anything,” he says softly.

“Alright. You smell.”

He kisses Emma despite her words, despite the fact that she’s giggling beneath his lips, because if he didn’t he’d regret it for the rest of his life, probably.

(He’s engaging in melodrama again, but he can allow himself that when he loves her the way that he does.)


	12. know that you'll be my downfall

 

Emma wakes up in the morning thinking of him. Or rather, she thought about him all night, dreamed about him probably, but she can’t remember those enough to be certain. But she did think about him every time she woke up in the night - and then the time she woke up, _thinking_ about him.

She hadn’t done anything about the ache between her legs then, too nervous about touching herself after he touched her. It’s stupid and she knows there isn’t an _imprint_ of some kind- and she’s blushing just thinking about it. It’s not like she was bowlegged afterwards. It’s not like he fucked her.

Emma groans and pushes her face into her pillow, seeking asylum there and finding nothing except vague thoughts of his fingers on her, how he could fuck her and all the many positions he could do it in. She should probably get up and thank her mother for that one.

Or better yet, get up and _not_ do that. Get up and stop thinking about it, stop thinking about Killian’s fingers on her and focus on more important things.

Applications to finish.

Interviews to prepare for.

Volunteer work to do.

_Oh fuck._

She springs out of bed, races through her morning prep just in time to meet her father in the kitchen, and his knowing (but not _too_ knowing) grin.

“Ready?” he asks like she’s never ready, like she always oversleeps, like she’s in desperate need of the cup of coffee he’s failing to hide behind his back.

Emma steps around him, snagging it out of his fingers and says, “As I’ll ever be. If Roger gets out again, I’m staying behind.”

She vows this with a nod of her head so that he knows for certain that she is not under any circumstances chasing the old dog through the forest again.

“You get a ‘Get out of Dog Chasing, Free’ card today because it is Halloween and you were kind enough to volunteer for this after all,” her dad says, holding open the door for her.

She steps out into the cold and turns to him to say, “I didn’t actually volunteer, but you know, semantics.”

“You couldn’t leave Graham all alone. It isn’t in your nature,” her father says.

She wouldn’t have even realized if he hadn’t paused, wouldn’t even have thought of it if his eyes hadn’t flashed in apology, his mouth down-turning in a regretful frown.

(Emma’s the one who gets left behind and left all alone; it isn’t in her nature to do the same.)

“I get it from Mom. She can’t abandon anyone, even though she should,” Emma says, patting him on the arm in acceptance of the apology he doesn’t need to give, because her father would never leave her. That’s about as likely as it is that he would leave her mom.

(It just isn’t happening.)

Speaking of...

Her father starts, “I hope that isn’t about -”

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking to break up the dream team,” Emma says.

Again, she pats him on the arm and he uses that to lead her forward, as he says, “Oh good because I love your mother. Like a lot.”

“ _Really_?” Emma clasps a hand to her mouth in feigned surprise.

“I know, I know it’s terrible,” he says.

“It _is_.”

(Love is a terrible thing; Emma can happily say that she knows this now - or unhappily given last night’s tossing and turning.)

She tries not to let _that_ thought show on her face and she must succeed because her father just nudges her and says, “Alright, get in the car before Graham calls us about being late. You know how the kids like to get there early.”

The kids do like to get there early on Halloween. Or rather, their parents can’t wait to drop them off at the shelter steps in the safe, welcoming, and puppy carrying arms of the Sheriff’s deputy. And if a few of the single mothers and fathers would love to drop themselves off into those arms as well…

_Well._

That’s what Emma is for, to ward them off so Graham can get down to the business of herding children, which Emma can see is already going to be an issue when her father lets her off so he can get back to the station in time for the first calls of the day. August is leaning into Graham’s arms and the only thing keeping them apart is the box of dog tags in Graham’s hands.

“Emma, my beautiful savior,” Graham says, his voice heavy with his accent - it’s already getting to him, and Emma can’t help but laugh as August remains at Graham’s elbow, grin wide and inviting.

“Are you sure I can’t help with the volunteer efforts? My dad will be highly upset if you turn me down again,” August says.

_Smooth_.

“Smooth,” Graham echoes. “Using Gepetto in your efforts? _Real_ smooth.”

“I try,” August says.

And boy does he, all smiles and brushing his wavy hair out of his face - and Graham notices, visibly fighting a losing battle with his body and his mind when he smiles despite how very obviously annoyed it makes him.

(Emma’s worn that look a few times herself; maybe it’s just a skill you learn when you’ve grown enough scruff, how to make someone’s expression scream, “I’m happy but I’m mad about it.”)

“Emma, please,” Graham says.

“Sorry, August, but he’s said the magic word,” Emma says and steps in between them, gently pushing August to the side so Graham stops making that pitiful face in her direction.

“And since when do _you_ believe in magic?” August asks.

“I was never a non-believer. I just didn't believe in _you_. You sucked at pulling rabbits out of hats,” Emma says, and just to make matters worse, to deepen August's laugh and tease Graham a bit (just a little bit, just a tad), she adds very seriously, “But anyone that can make Graham forget that he’s supposed to be putting the final touches on the puppy playroom right now must be magic, so I apologize for my disbelief. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Forget what I said about you being my savior,” Graham says, scowling at Emma and August. Emma has the decency not to pretend she wasn’t fucking with him, something August doesn’t because he frowns sadly when Graham says, “I have some... _things_ to do. Emma, you’re heading the front desk so make this fast.”

Graham walks back inside and Emma has to give him props where props are due, he doesn’t look back, doesn’t catch August staring at his ass and certainly doesn’t catch August's less than guilty look at having Emma catch him doing it.

“So, _Savior_ , how about it? I can head the front desk while you and Graham handle the kids,” August says. “I’ll be completely professional.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire.”

August checks out his own ass, patting out the nonexistent flames. Emma shakes her head, laughing lightly, and says, “There are too many kids for August shaped distractions today, and you know nothing about the safety forms I’m undoubtedly going to have to make some parents fill out because they forgot to send them in last week.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave...for now.”

“Try to make that sound less like a threat,” Emma says, looking towards the direction Graham disappeared in. “I’m in close with the deputy. How would he like to hear that you threatened his Savior?”

“You’d think that it wouldn’t take that much to get me some manhandling,” August says.

His expression breaks into embarrassed disgust with himself at the same time that Emma’s breaks into pure disgust, and perhaps some embarrassment on his behalf.

“Let’s pretend -”

“I never said that,” August finishes.

“Cool,” Emma confirms. She pats him on the back and says, “I’ll see you another time.”

Walking past him, she waves her goodbye as he waves his, and enters the shelter. The front desk is already decked out for Halloween, which her dad must have done because it looks a right mess that would have her mother shaking her head and redoing the decorations with terrifying efficiency. Emma sets to work fixing it with _not_ terrifying efficiency, so by the time the first parents knock at the shelter doors, she is ready to wave them in without feeling embarrassed about the battered wings of the bats.

Signing in the kids, one after another and pointing them towards the playroom lulls her into a state of almost enlightenment. She can call it that because she has a moment of watching one of the children sign their name - “Look, mom, I can do it myself” - and realizes that _she_ can do this, that Killian was right about her volunteering efforts being important to getting into colleges, but it goes beyond that - Emma could do this, could work with kids. She’s good at it, and she’s enjoying the hell out of it, which shouldn’t come so much as a surprise as it does when she looks down at the girl’s signature, struggling to decipher the Debbie from her backwards lettering.

Emma glances up as Debbie and her mother follow the path to the playroom and groans loudly if only for the effect of making Ruby shrug her shoulders up and pout.

“I thought we were going to make last minute costumes today,” Ruby says. She sighs, throwing her hands up in the air, “But this is going to make them _really_ last minute."

“Are you here to play with the puppies today, too?” Emma asks in her ‘I’m talking to a child’ voice, which is basically her normal voice with her smile just a little wider and her tone just a bit brighter.

Ruby takes note, taps her fingers down on the desk and says, “Where do I sign in?”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not serious?”

Emma looks up thoughtfully, mouthing numbers as she counts up all the times that Ruby has not been serious until Ruby reaches over the desk and grabs her by the arm.

“Graham is here, right?”

“You have a girlfriend and he has a boyfriend in the making,” Emma reminds her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to steal him from you - wait, he and August still haven’t?” Ruby asks, brows bent in confusion.

“If by ‘haven’t’ you mean ‘gone on a date’ then the answer is yes. If you mean anything else, keep it to yourself because August has already scarred me for life. I like to keep my traumatic experiences to once a day, thanks,” Emma replies with as much sarcasm as she can muster.

(Which is a lot.)

Which is enough to make Ruby shake her again and hiss, “Shut up, oh my god.”

In retaliation, Emma says, “I’m going to help Graham with the kids. Man the front for a bit?”

“Sure. Tell Roger I say hi,” Ruby says.

“Tell him yourself when I get back. Roger and I are not on speaking terms at the moment,” Emma says.

Emma _lies_ because when the old dog  comes bounding up to her as soon as she enters the playroom, Emma can’t help but scratch him under his chin the way he likes even though he slobbers all over her fingers, an action not completely unexpected but completely unappreciated.

“Jerk,” she says.

Roger has this unfortunate habit of making her feel bad about calling him names so she scratches him behind the ear, too, and walks with him to where Graham and the volunteering parents are helping the children fit blue and pink bat-shaped name badges on the dogs. They’ll be wearing those until Christmas, no doubt, unless they have another event before that and the crazy cat lady who runs the shelter remembers to order them instead of putting through her own papers to adopt every single cat in the shelter.

Emma approaches Graham’s side as he bends over the short bench. She smiles at the father that steps out of her way, murmuring a thank you that he follows with a “No, thank _you_ ,” wiping brown, grey and black dog fur onto his pants and shaking himself out like a wet dog. Emma laughs, as does his own son when he lifts him up off the floor and puts him in the Superman pose to the delight of the puppies sniffing around the father’s feet.

She turns at the sound of barking and looks back at Graham as one of the shaggier dogs, a breed Emma’s never seen before, clatters across it, chasing her own tail before Graham pulls her back in.

Graham smiles at Emma and says,  “I’ve yet to properly speak to you all day,” his fingers fumbling at the dog’s collar as she jumps about, trying to sniff his hands, making it difficult for him to get it off.

With his elbow, Graham skates the dog tag over to Emma. The little bat wings are sure to look ridiculous around her neck when she’s already been fitted for demon horns, no doubt by the little girls giggling in front of them at the bench. The group disperses after Graham’s struggle becomes too boring for them, but one younger girl remains, staring at - Emma looks at the dog tag again - _Jolly_ with big eyes.

“How are you, Emma?” Graham asks.

The girl looks over at Emma at that, her brown eyes big and wide. Emma flashes her a bright smile and says, “I’m just great. How are you?”

“I’m great, too, I suppose,” Graham answers.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Emma says to Graham, and to the girl, she asks, “Isn’t he rude?”

She winks when the girl stares at her. Giving Emma a shy smile, she answers, “He’s not bad.”

“Thank you,” Graham says.

Emma swivels around just in time to catch Graham sticking his tongue out at her.

“Rude,” Emma says under her breath but still loud enough for the girl to hear.

She’s rewarded with a giggle and a furious woofing from the dog as Graham finally manages to remove her collar, and pass it to Emma so she can slip the pink dog tag onto it. Emma takes the excited dog out of Graham's hands and coos at her as Graham fastens the collar back on with much less difficulty this time.

“Why’s her name Jolly?” the girl asks as Emma.

“Isn’t she just the happiest little puppy you’ve ever seen? She’s _jolly_ ,” Emma says.

The dog barks at the girl and with Emma’s help, she helps her off the bench and to the little girl’s feet where she runs around her ankles licking and barking excitedly. Emma steps around to the dog treat box and pulls out one of the ghost shaped treats.

“Wanna feed her?” she asks.

“Sure,” Graham answers.

This time, it isn’t Emma who calls Graham out, but the girl, who says, “She was asking me.” She turns to Emma and with a less matter-of-fact “you’re an idiot, deputy,” tone, she asks, “Can I?”

Emma hands her the treat, positively enjoying the way Graham huffs and puffs behind her, the annoyed breaths fading into light chuckles as he watches the girl bend to feed Jolly.

“That’s the last of them,” Graham says. “It’s just play time now.”

As Graham moves to help the parents out with that, Emma gets down on her knees and prepares herself for a tongue bathing. Jolly doesn’t disappoint, licking all over Emma’s hands as she tries to scratch her behind the ears. Emma and the girl, Jessica, Jolly’s biggest fan, end up playing with Jolly until -

Until Ruby bursts into the room, shouting, “Run free, little puppies, run free!” and the room erupts in a chorus of surprised laughter and child screams as the dogs do, in fact, run free, chasing them and their parents about.

“Nice one,” Emma says, taking Ruby’s extended hand with her own, the hand that Jolly’s spent a good five minutes bathing in spit.

Ruby grimaces, but holds her tongue until Emma is close enough that her “Bitch” can be heard by Emma’s ears alone.

“August is manning the desk,” Ruby says.

Emma sighs. “You didn’t.”

“I actually did _not_ have to call Gepetto’s and weave a tale about how badly Graham needs his help. He and Gepetto came by about five minutes ago. According to Gepetto, he’d charged August with helping out today. He seemed very disappointed to hear that you had to spend your morning doing what August should’ve been doing.”

“Huh,” Emma says.

(What a twist.)

“I _know_. Gepetto wants him to get some, too,” Ruby says.

(A _gross_ twist.)

“Well, thanks for that mental scarring,” Emma says.

Ruby pats her on the shoulder. “You know I’m always here for that. Come on, you’ve just been given your sock, Dobby. Let’s go get costumed.”

Ruby kindly allows her to say goodbye to Jessica and Jolly before dragging her to her doom. She’s nice that way, the best friend anyone could ask for even when she’s eyeing Emma like costuming is the furthest thing from her mind.

“How was your date?” Ruby asks once they’re inside her car, after they’ve safely bypassed August at the desk, minimal injury done to their psyche by August’s self-congratulatory smirk.

 “It was good,” Emma responds.

The silence that follows can only mean one thing. Emma prepares herself for the outburst, counting down - 3, 2, and 1.

“Oh, god, you guys fucked, didn’t you?” Ruby screeches.

(Well, yes.)

(Well, no.)

( _Well_.)

Emma groans, shutting her eyes. When she reopens them, Ruby nudges her with the hand not on the wheel and says, “It’s okay, you can repent on your sins at the altar of le closet de Ruby.”

“Was that supposed to be a nod to my terrible French skills? You sounded just like me. I think I’ve said that once or twice.”

“Or all the time,” Ruby says.

Emma nudges her back, grinning. “Or all the time.”

“So…”

She looks at Ruby.

“So, your date was truly good? You don’t have to tell me details.”

Ruby winks like she wants Emma to tell her, but Emma knows her tone for what it is - there was a time in the tenth grade where she found Emma crying in the laundry room at Granny’s and Ruby sounded the same then, with her arms wrapped around Emma’s shoulders, talking to her until she got too annoyed by Ruby’s heavy weight to cry any longer -

“Killian understands,” Emma says.

And Ruby does, too. Her tone loses all hints of concern as she says, “I’m sure he does,” eyebrow arched in deviousness.

“I don’t have to give details, right?” Emma reminds her.

Ruby pouts. “You don’t, _but_ …”

Emma sighs. “But what?”

“Were my side comments helpful?” Ruby says.

Emma’s first reaction is to yell, “How did you know?” but she’s learned from years of being Ruby’s friend that she doesn’t _actually_ know, doesn’t know that Killian and her went down that list one by one, nor any of Emma’s thoughts about “keeping it classy” or being “lady or dude appropriate.”

Emma’s not going to be the one to tell her.

She’s not.

“They weren’t _unhelpful_ ,” Emma admits.

“ _Nice_.”

**-**

It’s supposed to be a masquerade.

He’s supposed to look through all these princesses, superheroes, wrestlers, and action stars and pretend that the search is difficult, that he doesn’t recognize the braided blonde crown the moment he sees it and those green eyes - they could be anyone’s green eyes behind that black mask.

He’s supposed to pretend that he wouldn’t know her in any crowd.

They’re supposed to play pretend -

But she doesn’t give him a chance, doesn’t want a chance, says as much with her lips on the exposed skin of his throat, her nose nuzzled into his neck, her hand over his beating heart -

They’re supposed to play pretend -

But he’d rather not revisit any moment without Emma curving against him, Emma whipping off her mask so he can see her, so everyone can see her as she smiles up at him, bright enough to outshine the sun.

They’re _supposed_ to play pretend -

But they don’t.

-

Ruby tried and tried _and_ tried.

To say, Ruby didn’t try would be to say Ruby isn’t Ruby.

But the only thing Ruby’s insistence on having Emma go through that list and telling her _exactly_ what she and Killian have been up to left her with - besides the annoying echo of Ruby’s voice in her head, “It’s big reveal time, Emma. Your time for shock and awe!” - is this: the realization that one list just isn’t _enough_.

It never was, really, because oh god, she’s horny. Call it teenage libido. Call it lust. Call it love gone mad, but the moment she sees Killian grinning at her with those stupid fangs - he didn’t even bother to dress up - Emma wanted to jump his bones.

In increasingly specific ways.

Which that one moment they shared at Victor’s without their mouths on each other didn’t help. Having him grind against her ass while she failed to pretend that she didn’t realize exactly what he was doing _didn’t help_.

It only made her tilt her head to Killian’s ear and say, “I’m supposed to be spending the night over at Ruby’s,” and wait that brief moment for him to get the hint - wait that brief, heart pounding, nervous moment until he caught her lips and said, “Halloween is such a busy night at the hospital. Ratched always does the overnight shift.”

Which she supposes is helpful, but they have hours between this moment with Killian humming happily at his desk while Emma paces the floor and the one when Emma has to leave. Hours for her to blurt out -

“We should make a new list. Just for us.”

Killian shoots up at his desk. He swivels his chair around to face her, arching his eyebrow in confusion.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot since -”

(Since I woke up wanting you to fuck me senseless.)

“Since we finished off the last one…”

She trails off. He steps out of his chair, approaching her like she’s a wild animal that might lose its head at any moment. Joke’s on him. She lost her head about _a billion_ kisses ago.

Emma licks her lips.

“I really think it’ll be a good idea. So we know what we should do...if we get lost…”

She sounds like an idiot but now that she’s speaking she can’t seem to stop even if he’s still keeping that slow pace walking towards her.

“So we both know what we want out of this.”

He smiles at that, and she doesn’t know what to think of him not saying a word as he reaches her, his socked toes rubbing against her bare ones.

She doesn’t want to fill the silence with words; she’s already said possibly too much, but he did say she could tell him anything and this is anything, maybe a little more off the beaten track than your ( _her_ ) usual “my ex-boyfriend treated me like I was nothing” and “I think we’re both going to fail French if we keep doing this” but it’s not exactly _not_ them - they started off with a list, they started off with her on the floor of Victor’s treehouse and -

“How about we don’t have a list?” he says, drawing her into him. He kisses her forehead and he must have some inkling on what it does to her - just as she knows what it does to him every time she leans into it. Killian lifts his head and looks down at her to say, “You just tell me what you want.”

He lifts an eyebrow invitingly, so Emma presses into him and says very clearly, no stuttering, and definitely not all in one breath, “I want you fuck me from behind.”

Killian blinks at her.

“It’s supposed to feel really good,” she says, trying to entice an expression that isn’t just dumbfounded.

Either it works or Killian was just waiting for her to stop her panicked breathing before he swooped in and kissed her - taking away all the thoughts in her head with the press of his lips and replacing them with one hand going for the side zip of her shirt and the other curving up beneath it to palm at the skin of her belly.

“I’m sensing that you’re more than fine with this,” Emma says.

He chuckles, turning red at the ears. “Yeah, I - I’ve never done this before but I’ve heard the same.”

“From Jefferson?” she asks because she’s heard.

She’s _heard_ for the past 3 years.

Killian shakes his head. “From Ruby.”

“She’s told the whole world that story,” Emma says.

“I don’t know, Swan. I don’t think the whole world is ready for that story.”

He runs his thumb along the edge of her leather pants - the spy/assassin look was a good call on Ruby’s part because the side zipper of her borrowed pants makes it super easy for Killian to get her out of them.

“The whole world should be preparing itself then, because she just set up her twitter,” Emma says on a sigh.

A sigh that he shares in, his more stuttered because she leans into him, pressing her lips to his neck, not quite kissing the skin.

“Oh no,” he says, tone too even.

She lifts her head from his neck, her suspicions confirmed by Killian’s lifted brow and the quick way he pushes her pants down to her knees, covering her mound with his hand before she can put up a fight. She stumbles backwards as he steps forward, hits the edge of the bed and falls onto her ass.

“Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding remotely sorry.

She isn’t sorry either, so he’s in good company.

Emma loses her clothes fully by the time he joins her on the bed, by the time _he_ jumps _her_ bones, quite literally. His weight hits her all at once and she’s starts pushing him away, but his cock drags against her thigh at the same moment he kisses her and it’s a double attack, no way that she can fight against that when she’s wanted this all day -

(She’s turning into a sex fiend. It really _is_ her time for shock and awe.)

There’s no purpose to the kiss, just a slow exploration that she’s been denying him every time they’ve come together, too horny, not enough time, a billion other excuses she had for not indulging in this, and even though Emma was the one who started to insist that they have a list to keep them on track, in case they forget, she lets herself forget. She lets Killian kiss her slow and deep, kisses him back at the same lazy pace.

He tastes good. He _always_ tastes good.

Emma kind of wants to tell him that. She also kind of wants to _not_ turn the color of a tomato, so it’s a bit of a battle on that one.

The kiss though is nothing like a battle. It’s practically _sweet_ , sweeter still when they roll onto their sides and he cups her face in his hand, kneading her cheeks with his thumbs.

She should tell him that, too, tell him how much she loves it this way.

There’s a lot she should tell him. Maybe more than she’ll ever be able to say, but she wants to try. Maybe that’s the list she’ll keep, one where she writes down every thought like this, every single one that he might find worth hearing and even the ones she doesn’t think worth saying.

This, however, is worth saying. It’s worth letting the kiss end when it does so she can open her eyes to the deep, soul-boring stare of his and say, “We should spend hours doing this.”

“We can,” Killian says, but he tuts as she moves forward again. She draws back, only sort of (just sort of) glaring, “But you wanted something else, didn’t you?”

“Sounds like someone wants it _more_ than me,” Emma teases.

“Does it?”

“That’s not a defense.”

“I don’t need one. I have no problems telling you to roll over,” he says.

He lifts his eyebrow, smirking so she kicks him in the shin.

“Violence is not foreplay. You’d think you’d know that at this point,” Killian says.

Instead of another well-deserved kick, she gifts him with a smile - a gift because she knows how much he loves it when she’s smiling at him, sees it right there in his own returned smile, feels it when he moves in and leaves a kiss on the tip of her nose.

(A thought she could share: it turns her on.)

(A thought she could totally share, but he’ll find that out soon enough. Real fucking soon if she has anything to say about.)

Emma budges him and they both start to move, Emma flipping over onto her belly and Killian disappearing from her vision, moving behind her. Crawling onto her hands and knees, Emma stares at his pillow for a second. She didn’t notice until now how the grey coloring on the black almost looks like waves - and she tosses the thought aside when she realizes she’s just trying to distract herself from her nervousness.

(A thought she could share: _that_ , but what the fuck would be the point?)

His hand touches her ass and she jumps, waves taking hold of her stomach.

“You ah -” Killian starts.

“What?”

He clears his throat and says, “I was going to say you look nice like this, but I suppose that just sounds…”

“Awful,” Emma says.

He chuckles behind her, and says, “Yeah, I’m not sure what I was thinking. ‘I love you on your hands and knees,’ sounds so romantic.”

“I'm swooning.”

He laughs again, this time a little louder, and she jolts at the sound, jolts at the way his hand smooths over her back again.

“You have to arch your back a bit, just somewhat higher,” he says.

She’s grateful he can’t see her face as she does just that, the desire to burrow into the pillow to cover some of her embarrassment nearly overwhelming - but the more she lifts, the more likely she feels that she is going to end up there anyway, face planting into the pillow while he -

He strokes a finger over her and she lets out a low moan of surprise.

“Gods, you want me so much, Emma,” he says.

(Yeah, she didn’t need words to share that one.)

“Is that a problem?” she snipes.

She swivels her head just as much as she can to look at him, which becomes a problem when he meets her gaze with that reverent expression, the one she knows so well. This is what’s imprinted on her, not the physical feeling of him, but the feeling she can’t quite put words to. At least not ones that don’t sound stupid or like they’re leaving something out about the light in his eyes when he looks at her - like she put that light there.

“No,” Killian says, dipping his fingers between her folds to stroke her again, this time with intent, driving his fingers over the most sensitive part of her clit, where it’s almost too much for Emma to take that kind of pressure.

“Okay,” she says, turning away from Killian. Breathing sharply, she says, “Okay, good. That’s really good.”

“Yeah, this is good. This’ll work,” he says.

The bed shifts beneath her. Emma grips at the sheets, trying to prepare herself, realizes that she’s tensing and tries to relax. But it isn’t until his hand rubs over her back that she truly manages it, when his slightly roughened fingers find the bottom of her spine, as he presses against her.

“You want me to fuck you, right, Emma?” he asks.

Killian doesn’t give her a chance to answer - not that she could because he thrusts between her thighs, grinding his cock against her clit, and he keeps speaking, quietly coaxing her with his words, “You do. You want me so much, you’re practically dripping with need.”

Emma tries to tell him off, speed him along, get this goddamn show on the road and make him stop teasing her, but he _keeps_ teasing her, thrusting against her clit, drawing her wetness over his length, making him slick with it.

“Now, your body’s begging me, and it’s begging _so_ nicely, but what if I make you say it?”

That helps Emma find her tongue, and she says, “Make me say it? I’m not going to -”

He starts running his thumb over her back and it distracts for the second it takes for him to draw back and press himself against her core. She tries to push back onto him, but Killian just uses the hand on her back to make her arch more.

“I’m not going to beg you,” she finishes, a testimonial to just how stupid she is because he slides back down again, away from where she _is_ dripping for him, back to teasing at her clit, this time his thrusts light and barely touching her. Even though his hips hit her ass, it just isn’t close enough for Emma, and she says, “I’m not - I _won’t_. I fucking won't, Killian.”

Another stupid response because he starts to massage her back, and it tingles pleasantly, but the touch of his cock does not. There’s nothing pleasant about having Killian stroke over her without pressing where she needs him too, without fucking her like she wants him to.

Emma could curse him. She could.

She does, in a seemingly endless stream of words, curses him under her breath, before she says, “Alright, please, god I want you. Will you do it already?”

“Do what?” he asks.

“You’re an asshole,” Emma says.

She means it. Not much, but she means it.

“Fuck me,” she says, mainly a curse at herself that turns gratified when he says, “Anything you want, sweetheart,” and shifts back, light pressure on her clit as he does, just enough that she’s keening while he’s sinking into her.

“Oh, fuck me.”

“Fucking hell.”

She’s unsure who says which - it’s so much deeper than he’s been and she feels so full and it doesn’t help when he pulls out just barely, rocking back and forth to let her adjust to the stretch and pull of him inside her. Killian’s hitting bottom but it doesn’t hurt, just that fullness that makes her grip the sheets tight and draw together her trembling thighs.

“God, Emma, you have the most brilliant ideas,” he says, pulling out of her and pushing back in.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not the thrust of his hips, stealing sharp breaths every time he sinks deep, and not his words.

“You’re so bloody brilliant,” he says. “And I don’t - I don’t know why I don’t tell you this all the time, how impressed I am by everything you do.”

Voice raspy and thick, he says, “I should tell you - I should tell you that every time I see you, I want to kiss you, and every time you kiss me, all I want is for you to never stop -”

(There’s a thought worth sharing.)

“I don’t want to either,” she cuts him off.

His hips still for a second, and her breathing should come easier, but it doesn’t, her next breath a sharp inhale when he asks, soft, small, and so surprised, “Really?”

“Really, really,” she says, trying for joking, but she just sounds as earnest as him.

And then Emma’s moaning, falling to her elbows while he holds her hips up with one hand, dragging out of her and pushing back in without preamble - moaning because he’s giving her _exactly_ what she wants, _fucking_ her hard and fast and leaving her whole body shaking. She trembles on her elbows, and then she’s falling, falling, _falling_ , face pressed into the pillow, moans quiet and muffled by the soft cushion. No point in squeezing the sheets anymore except that she needs to, needs that handhold to keep her steady, if she can be that at all when Killian’s pushing her up the bed with the force of his thrusts, and speaking, filling her with warmth that she doesn’t think she can feel when she’s so hot all over but it’s different -

It’s different, the way Killian fucks into her and the way his words ghost over her, the strain of them, but the _sincerity_ , the fucking sincerity that makes her bite the pillow -

“I love you so much, it’s terrible,” he says.

It is, it is, it is. It’s so terrible and she loves it.

She loves him.

“It’s wonderful, no, it’s fantastic. Emma, you’re so fantastic.”

Her orgasm takes her - not off guard, no she can’t say she doesn’t feel it approach because it makes her stomach tighten, her legs shake so hard that it’s only his hands on her that keep her from falling completely flat to the bed -

No, it just takes her, takes her like he is, with such a force that she loses her vision for a moment. Either that or she closes her eyes so tight that she whites out.

“Oh, fuck, fuck.”

His thrusting becomes jerky and the angle shifts as her hips drop, his hands sweaty on her, no longer able to keep their grip and Emma ends up cursing with him, “Fuck,” because he hits that spot, the one she wasn’t even sure she’d have, but now she’s sure of it, she’s so fucking sure now that he’s rubbing against it with each short thrust, so hard that it’s too much -

Killian comes - maybe after, maybe during - all she knows is that he does because she finally does fall flat when he slips out of her and gently pulls her knees out from under her.

She lays on her belly and sighs into the pillow, satisfied with laying like this until she falls asleep - which is why she yelps when he flips her over without warning.

“You okay, Swan?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“I was fine until you decided to throw me on my back!”

He smirks and says, “Don’t tell me you don’t like being thrown on your back.”

“That’s gross,” she says while making the mistake of flicking her gaze to the side.

“You sound annoyed, but that look is weaving a different tale,” Killian says.

She grins, because, yeah, he’s right, she doesn’t mind when he has her like this. He spreads her thighs and climbs between them so he can lift her head from the disheveled sheets - the pillow pushed to the side when he rolled her over. His intent obvious, Emma rises on her elbows, making it easier for him to kiss her softly at first, but the longer his lips remain on hers, the more heated it becomes, and she ends up squeezing her legs together without thinking, surprising him into falling further into her.

Killian keeps kissing her, but he starts to slip, his fingers tangling in the hair at her neck, pulling it tight.

As he’s catching his breath, Emma says, “You’re pulling my hair.”

“I had the distinct impression that you enjoyed that.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Emma says.

Killian opens his eyes and she does too, staring her lie in the face when he pulls at her hair and she lets out a moan that isn’t even close to pained.

“All those ponytails you wear...” he says.

“Were not for this reason, I swear,” she says.

“You swear?”

Killian licks over her bottom lip with his tongue, tugging gently and Emma curses the position for her inability to return the favor, to tug at his hair, too. If he’s so certain that she’s into this simply from her - now that she’s thinking about it, goddamn him – pull-worthy ponytails, then she can say for certain that as much as he’s pulled his own hair into tangles during class, he must enjoy it.

The next breath he takes parted from her lips, Killian pulls all the way down, kissing over her neck instead of her mouth, and joke’s on him – (isn’t it always?) – she’s too breathless to make the sound he’s obviously seeking.

He lets out a clearly frustrated huff, and says, “Alright, I get it. I see.”

“See what?” she asks.

He peppers kisses over her chest in response, his scruff scraping roughly over her breasts as he slides down between them, and travels lower.

Emma looks down at him, sees where he’s headed, and shakes her head. This isn’t going to work, even if he’s settling comfortably between her thighs, throwing her legs over his shoulders so he can draw her closer.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Killian grabs her right hand and threads their fingers together.

“I love it when you come, so I’m going to make you come again. I know you can come for me again,” he says.

She backs up on her elbows more, shaking her head again. “I don’t think I can.”

His face falls a fraction and then he dips his head, licks gently at the skin right above her clit. Emma’s hips jump, instinctively seeking more. It must be instinct because her head is screaming that it’s impossible, she’s already sailed over that edge twice, a third time would be a goddamn miracle.

Killian must be a miracle worker in the making because he smiles at that and says, “You’re going to come for me, Emma, I know you can. I know you can.”

He emphasizes his words with a gentle lick to her skin again, just a little lower with each repetition.

“I know you can,” he says softer and for the last time before -

Before he sucks her clit into her mouth and makes her squeeze his hand so tight, makes her bite back a moan, but she can’t calm the panting, the shaking of her chest as he works her clit like a goddamn miracle man - and he stares at her as he does it, almost smiling, never looking away as he licks and pulls at her clit, as his teeth brush against her just enough to make her start begging -

“Please, oh jesus fuck, please, please.”

She hit the ground running, so it makes sense that she hits the edge and flies right over in mere minutes, it makes sense when Killian is looking at her with such longing, like all he’s ever wanted is this moment right here where she’s losing feeling in her fingers from holding him so tight and struggling against everything in her not to ride his face.

“Fuck, fuck, please,” she says, uncertainty taking her as he gently eases her down, pressing gentle kisses to her throbbing clit. Her whole body is pulsing, her chest lifting so frantically, sweat dripping between her breasts, down her brow, pooling in her belly, where she’s pulled tight into herself, unable to relax.

“Shhhh,” he hums, lifting his chin and resting it on her thigh. He presses a kiss there. Emma falls back to the bed, staring up at the ceiling but not really seeing anything, just feeling.

Feeling like she can go again.

And Killian moves over her, kissing up her thighs to her knees, rising above her and she looks up to see him, sees how hard he is -

“You want me so much,” she says, echoing his earlier words.

“Yes, I do,” he confirms.

She doesn’t let a silence pass between them for more than a beat before she says, “Condom?”

His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Wait, really?”

She nods, worried that if she speaks she’ll just spill how badly she wants him to fuck her. He’s eager enough for the both of them anyway, nothing seductive in the smile he gives her, but making her want him all the same.

“Emma, you’re amazing.”

“Condom,” she manages, laughing as he reaches under the bed.

She watches him as he tears open the wrapper and rolls it over his hard cock, biting at his lip as he touches himself. Emma lifts her hips as soon as he’s done even though she’s sure that it is going to be harder this time, she’s so uncoordinated and her body feels like it is being put to the ultimate test.

“You’re still - bloody hell, you’re so tight, Emma, so wet,” he says.

Killian loses it fast, but so does Emma, and they’re moving in almost perfect harmony, Emma meeting his thrusts, drawing him deep, against that spot that must feel as good for him as it does for her because he doesn’t speak this time, not until she starts to shake. She can feel the fluttering of her body. She’s so sensitive, and it’s bordering on insanity that she can almost see the edge -

“Are you going to come for me again?” Killian asks, softly amazed. He lifts her, shifting the angle so he can go deeper, and Emma clenches tight, doesn’t mean to but he groans low, practically a growl. “It’s okay, love, it’s okay. You’re so close, aren’t you? Come for me, please.”

Emma nods her head. She comes without a sound, back bowing off the bed, caught in a silent scream.

It takes him longer this time, and as she’s riding the waves of her orgasm, he rides her, slow and deep. Emma lets the hiccupping breaths escape, wants him to know just how good she feels with him like this.

(A _feeling_ worth sharing.)

“Emma, sweetheart, you look so beautiful when you come. Positively euphoric,” he says.

Killian stills inside her, and she can practically see the lightbulb going off, his dimples forming one by one in a smirk, his eyes lighting up in a bright shade of blue.

“I have an idea. How about I make you come again?”

She shakes her head no, nada, nope, ain’t happening, no way in hell - but he just pushes her further into the mattress, shifting them so he can roll his hips back and forth, have her looking down to where they’re joined, where she can see how the hair beneath his navel is grinding against her clit, how he’s so, _so_ deep she can’t even see his length, only peeks of it when he rocks back.

“I can manage it,” he says.

Confident.

( _Over_ confident, maybe.)

“Because when I do this, your hips jump -”

Emma’s hips _do_ jump when he grabs her breast and starts to massage the soft mound.

(Definitely not overconfident, then.)

“And when I touch your nipple just like _this_ -”

He pinches her nipple between his thumb and tugs, rolling it between his fingers to the same pace as he massages her other breast. Emma wraps her legs around his waist, digs her heels into his ass, tries everything in her power to get him moving again save speaking because she can’t do that right now, not when she’s trying to breathe.

“Oh, love, you make the most delightful sounds,” Killian says.

“I’m just trying to breathe,” she hisses.

“Well, take a deep breath. You’re going to want to fully experience this,” he says.

He continues to toy with her nipple, but the hand massaging her breast travels down to caress her side, and he replaces it with his mouth, placing wet, messy kisses around her breast, following quickly by sucking kisses that are sure to leave bruises and she doesn’t enjoy it so much, not until takes her nipple into his mouth, and his words finally ring true.

Emma forgot to take a deep breath.

Her mistake because the air goes from her lungs as he sucks at her breast, his fingers still playing with her other nipple. She realizes with something akin to surprise that she’s going to come again, going to come with his mouth on her breast, with his cock snug inside her, so thick and setting her alight with every little shift of his body.

He lifts from her breast, tugging her nipple between his lips for a long, long moment where she starts to dig her hands into the sheets, threatening to tear them clean off the bed. When Killian finally sets her free, it’s with a ragged breath that he says, “I can feel you, darling. Oh fuck, you’re going to come for me, aren’t you? You’re so good to me. So good.”

_So good_.

It’s so good how he starts that slow circling of his hips again, drawing out more and more, fingers still on her breast but his other hand holding her side, using her body for leverage to fuck her.

Emma comes to the sharp tug of his finger, when he slips and pulls harder than before, almost enough to hurt if she wasn’t so close, if she didn’t need that _pull_ to untwist the knot of heat in her core and send it balling outwards, flooding her all over with a pleasure so close to stealing her away into that abyss.

Killian takes a longer time than her to finally come, and when he does, her body is still all a-tingle, her hands only finally starting to disentangle from the sheets, Emma only starting to realize how wet they are beneath her, how wet and sweat sticky she is.

“This is actually gross,” she says.

Killian hums his agreement? She isn’t sure what noise that is, confused by his expression as he ties off the condom and lifts from the bed to take it and the other one to the trash. Emma turns red - he didn’t even pause to get rid of the other one, just went straight to turning her into _this_.

She still hasn’t caught her breath.

“I have this idea,” he says as he comes back over.

“An idea?”

“I think…”

He shakes his head and climbs back onto the bed and it’s only as he moves over her that she realizes her knees are still bent, her legs still spread wide like she’s just waiting to be fucked - or more accurately, she’s so fucked out she can’t even move.

“No, I _know_ that you can come again,” he says.

His hand finds her clit with careful precision, rubbing in circles. Emma’s so sensitive that the sensation immediately tears through her, like the aftershocks of an orgasm, but worse, not tingles of pleasure but sharp pangs of it, like the pleasure is biting into her, not washing over her.

It hurts because it feels _too_ good.

“I can’t,” she says, begs with tears forming and clinging to the corners of her eyes, cries out as his finger swipes over and over her clit.

“Just one more time, love, you can do this,” he says, encouraging - his voice goes dangerously soft as he says, “That pretty little clit of yours, it’s begging me to suck it again. Always begging.”

“Look,” he says, and she opens her eyes, following his gaze down to her clit, where he’s rubbing in firm circles now, where her sensitive flesh is straining towards him -

“See?” he asks.

She nods furiously, words gone to the sight of him leaning in, to his breath caressing her sweaty thighs in between suckling kisses that will leave bruises, hickeys that she won’t have to hide because only he’ll see, only he’ll know just how he’s marked her -

He lays a wet stripe over her from where she’s leaking for him, all the way up to her clit.

“You can do this, Emma. The way you’re leaking for me, gods know you can do this,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss over her clit, over her cunt, lapping at her core where he’s fucked her open and made it easy for him to catch her juices on his tongue, where she’s clenching with the need to be filled. He snakes his hand around, takes a wet path back up to her clit and leaves his fingers behind to thrust into her, to deepen that ache to the point that she grits her teeth around her gasps.

“I know you can do this, you can come for me again,” he says so _certain_.

So certain that Emma slides her hand over her breast, down to his face, looks down at him as he looks up at her and cups his cheek -

Whispers, “Please, Killian, I want to - I want to come.”

He answers with a smile and whispered words that she can’t hear, can’t read on his lips, not when her eyes are so hazy. Answers by taking her clit into his mouth and, as he lavishes it with careful attention, drags his fingers against her walls before he finds that spot inside her and gives her what she wants.

She comes for so long that she’s sure she’s passed out because the world around her dies out, nothing but a buzz enveloping her.

Emma stays in that space, floating above everything until she feels Killian’s fingers slipping out of her while he drops kisses over her skin, over her cunt and belly, soft things that make her want to sleep forever.

“Emma, are you alright? Did I push you too hard?” he asks.

He sounds worried so Emma fights the sleepiness to open her eyes and look at him as he settles above her with his head between her breasts.

It’s a funny sight, that’s why she laughs, but that doesn’t help the furrow in his brow and he sounds even more concerned when he repeats her name.

“I’m fine,” she answers, but her throat is dry and the words come out hoarse.

He sweeps his hands over her shoulder, trailing his fingers along the curve of her collarbone, and drops his palm over her heart.

“I love you,” he says.

Groans it - and then hisses, “Fuck.”

She feels the reason why and there’s no possible way she can help with how he’s rising against her, growing thick and hard. She’d probably most certainly die...or just be sore for a week and she’s not interested in either of those things.

 “Sorry,” he says and climbs off of her.

She stops him, grabbing his arm as he faces away from her. Over his raised thigh, she can see how his hand fists over his cock, feel his arm moving as he keeps stroking himself even though she’s touching him.

(Maybe because she _is_ touching him.)

“I want to watch.”

She drops her legs flat to the bed as he twists and shuffles closer to her again, cock raised over her belly, his fist held tight around it.

“I want you to come for me,” she says, pleads - it’s torn somewhere in between.

Torn because he’s stroking over her, his cock so red and hard -

(And if she wasn’t so tired, this might’ve been different, but it’s good the way it is too.)

“You’re so good for me, Emma,” he says.

(So good.)

He strokes harder, his eyes threatening to close. Killian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as his fingers curl around the tip.

When he releases it, he says, “You’re so good, all for me. Only for me.”

(This is the part where he calls her his, right?)

Right. This is the part where her breath catches as he says, “All mine.”

And this is the part where he keeps saying it, trapping her between the words and his gaze, focused completely on her as he slides in and out of his fist, working himself over and over.

His groan is guttural as he comes, no words in the sound, just the slap of his hand on his cock and the warm feeling of his release spilling over her belly.

Since he has no words, Emma speaks them for him.

“Don’t snore.”

With those important words said, she closes her eyes and falls out, lets herself fall back into that state of tiredness so deep that she barely feels it as he moves from the bed, only just notices his hands on her as he cleans off her belly. The only thing she really feels is his words as they caress her skin -

“...goodnight, moon.”

And there’s another thought she could share, that he’s a complete and total nerd, but it’ll have to wait. It’ll have to wait until he isn’t wrapped up behind her and she isn’t already lost to sleep.


	13. but i call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should always say this at the beginning of the chapter because I don't say it nearly enough, but thank you thank you THANK YOU for your comments, kudos, and especially just reading this fic, I'm never happier than when I can share my fic with y'all tbqh.

He doesn’t want to wake her, so he’s as gentle about it as he can be, stroking his fingers over her neck until she slowly peels her eyes open. Emma looks up at him beneath her lashes, her gaze still heavy-lidded even though he's reasonably sure that she's awake. Her eyes flutter shut, but she opens them only seconds later, wider this time - it looks like it's the hardest thing she ever had to do. Her nose is wrinkling up in a frown even.

Well, she's not _awake,_ but he’s reasonably sure that she won’t fall asleep on him again.

“It’s still dark out,” she says, the start of an argument in her sleep raspy tone.

She only just manages to nod her head towards his window. It’s getting lighter outside by the minute, but it’s still dark enough that his room is shadowed. The barely there light plays shapes across her body, especially when she turns, lifting up, and the sheet starts to fall away from where he tucked it around her shoulders, revealing more skin than he’s ready to see.

“No ‘Good morning?’” Killian asks.

He’s aware that he sounds a little overeager, a little too much like he’s just waiting for the sheet to dip further, waiting for her smile to invite him in. He’s _aware_ that Emma’s barely awake and -

“It’s still dark out,” she argues again.

_Right_.

“Right. Not a good morning until it’s late afternoon,” he says in an attempt to steer himself away from his errant thoughts.

Emma tucks her head into the pillow, groaning slightly. She’ll be asleep again if he lets her, and he can’t let her even though it stirs him, how comfortable she is - and he's never slept better than he has with her pressed up against him, without a doubt that’s written across his face, and he can almost see it written across hers as well, in the soft contours of her cheeks, the slight parting of her mouth.

With difficulty he says, “But Ratched will be here by early afternoon and I assume that’s not a conversation you’re ready to have.”

She jerks her head back up, her eyes flying fully open, and says, “Good assumption.”

He sighs and of course now that she’s awake, he finds the urge to snuggle down with her is too much to resist. Killian lies down, rolling over on his elbow so he can see her face as he draws his hand down her sheet covered belly. She covers his hand with hers, stopping him for stroking lower, his errant hands as difficult to suppress as his thoughts.

“I need a shower,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees, tries and fails not to imagine climbing in with her.

Tries and fails not to hear the desire echoed in her replied, “You need a shower,” as she wraps herself around him.

Tries and fails not to take that up tenfold when he presses himself against her, already feeling his body start to react to her warmth, and says, “Is that an invitation?”

“Nope, it’s just me stating the obvious,” Emma says.

Tries and fails, and fails, and _fails_ not to drag his lips against her forehead and whisper, “Do you think that's a good idea?”

“Well, I’m, uh -” Her words tickle at his neck. He doesn't hear her curse, but feels her breath rush against him, before she says, “I’m really turned on, okay. Like morning wood, but worse.”

“Worse?” Killian probes, not proud of the way his words choke when her hand slides across his thigh - it can’t be worse than the way _he_ woke up at all.

“I kind of, uh, hate you. For yesterday, I mean. I still feel all - shower, I need a shower,” she adds that last part like she’s reminding herself.

“I don’t think you hate me,” he purrs.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

Emma pushes out of his embrace which is all kinds of wrong when it pulls the sheet down past her breasts. She gathers it quickly, but he lost this battle the moment it dropped. She climbs over him, nearly falling into his lap as the sheet tangles beneath him, but tugging hard, she pulls him off the bed and half on the floor in her attempt to take the sheet with her.

“Give me like five minutes and then you can, uh, follow if you want,” she says as she stalks out his room, dragging his sheet across the floor.

Well, he was going to wash it anyway.

“If I want…” Killian murmurs, amazed at her misconception that he isn’t counting down the minutes.

Though he does give her seven minutes rather than her requested five, not moving until he hears the pipes scream as the shower turns on. Killian jumps out of bed and pads to the bathroom. He starts to knock on the door, but it creaks open with his first push and he announces, “Emma, I’m coming in,” as he steps inside.

His sheet is balled at the feet of the toilet and Emma stands with her back to him, bent over as she tests the water and adjusts the shower knobs. Killian stares. As the water finally gets to the heat she wants, she straightens and calls him out, “Stop staring, you're embarrassing yourself.”

“Am I? I don’t feel that embarrassed. I feel rather blessed, actually.”

She hums in acknowledgement and carefully steps into the shower, leaving Killian helpless but to follow after her, dragging his boxers down his hips and stepping out of them quickly. The room is already hot and fogged over, but he doesn’t feel the heat, not until Emma steps under the spray and he watches as the water traces rivulets down her skin, turning it pink from the heat. He doesn’t feel hot until he watches her fingers roll over her body, following the path of water, and she moans low in her throat as her hands move to her hips and circle the curves of her thighs.

“You aren’t being fair, Emma,” he says.

“I was just thinking about that - fairness, you know. And I think it’s only fair that you, uh, hurry up and get in here,” she says - and fuck, it sounds like she’s panting.

As he finally steps into the shower, he realizes she really is panting, her breathing becoming shorter as he risks touching her back. She has a couple of freckles on her shoulders that have yet to fade. He picks up her wet hair, pushing it aside - and laughs when he sees the pink, raised skin.

“I apologize in advance,” he says and lists forward.

Killian presses his lips against the raw spot at first, not even a kiss, just a touch of his skin to hers. She rocks back into him, a hiss whistling between her teeth when he licks out, tracing the water on the bruise his mouth left behind.

“I feel like we had this conversation about hickeys before,” Emma says.

“We might have, but you probably should’ve reiterated. I’m a bit hard of hearing, and forgetful to a fault,” he says, failing to mention the unconscious need that always drives the sucking of his lips on her skin.

A failure to mention how the warmth sinks into his bones when he sees the evidence of his touch all over her body.

(His voice so rough when he says it, an _utter_ failure to disguise just how much he likes it.)

Killian kisses over the spot again and grazes his teeth against it too. Emma moans, but it’s a frustrated sound, one that Killian is quick to soothe, carefully addressing the issue with his tongue.

Softly, she replies, “You don’t forget anything. You remembered my birthday.”

“That’s an easy thing to remember,” he says, trying not to think much of the awe in her voice, like it means everything to her. He thought he was used to the idea of meaning something to her, but this feels...different, the only way to describe it when his thoughts are as hazy as the air is around him, when all that’s concrete is the press of her against him.

“Do you…” Emma stays quiet a beat, and then starts her question again, “Do you remember when you came back from that away game, and you were really late to class but you…”

“Stopped to help you pick up your things after your bag tore. You loved that backpack,” he says of the patched black backpack with the lettering blocked out in yellow sharpie ( _she likes yellow_ ) and Ruby’s gel pens always peeking out of the front pocket - “For easy access,” Ruby had explained when he asked why Emma carried her pens around, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it wasn’t easier to carry her own pens.

“I did love it,” Emma says as she turns around and grabs his shoulder. Rising up on her toes to kiss him, she says, “Thank you for remembering.”

If it sounds like ‘I love you,’ her voice filled with appreciation, affection, happiness; if it looks like ‘I love you,’ her green eyes shining before she shuts them and falls deeper into the kiss; if it feels like ‘I love you,’ with her lips moving against his, slow and sure, so certain of everything -

(Certain of him, of him, _of him._ )

If it tastes like ‘I love you,’ their tongues circling and meeting, a dance well stepped, then it must be Emma drawing her love into his skin, her mouth, her fingers, her body the brush to color him in.

Emma leaves no space between them while she rolls her hips, her whole body moving with her and against him. The friction is good, but not nearly what Killian wants.

(Even though the only thing he wants is her, whatever way he can have her, and she's going to let him have her again, even after last night -)

She groans into his mouth, grasping at him, nails digging into his shoulders, so he grasps at her too, moves his hands down the smooth lines of her back, down until he hits the curve of her ass, and squeezes until she nips at his lip, maybe a warning, but more likely, by the way she kisses him afterwards, almost bruising, it’s just _wanting_ \- and he’s never really explained to her just how much he loves her ass, but he does, he loves every inch of her, particularly loves the way she fits in his hands as he drifts lower, stepping them forward underneath the spray.

They part to breathe as the water splashes over their faces. Emma laughs, “Why would you do something so -” and then gasps, his advance pushing her back to the damp wall where the water can’t hit her, where he can stroke his fingers over her wet skin and he has the leverage to lift her so  -

So when she squirms against him, it’s against the stiff length of his cock and they both moan, Killian’s close to a whimper as he feels how wet she is. Emma grabs his shoulders, pulling him flush against her, a strain on his muscles that’s so worth it for the way her nipples pebble against his chest, sharp little peaks that drag against him when she arches her back, pressing her head against the wall holding her up while still rolling her hips, her movements jerky, her body slippery. The water has already cooled off, but right there where she’s creating the most delicious friction, pleasurable and painful at the same time when he’s throbbing and as eager as the jump of her hips and the crooked press of her mouth to his cheek as she tries to find his lips - right there it’s just pure heat, not unlike the water rolling down his back, over and past her bent knuckles.

“This isn’t being careful, Emma,” he blurts out. He isn’t going to lie and say that he cares much when he’s so close to her, but it’s risky, and he needs to be sure, needs to be certain that she wants this before he -

Before _she_ wriggles any higher, before her movements shift the angle and he ends up burying himself inside her.

“I’m on birth control, I don’t have any STDs, and I’m really horny, fuck,” Emma rasps.

At least one of them thought this through before they ended up like this.

He almost laughs at it because he shouldn’t be surprised, after spending three years with Principal Blanchard’s sex drive, after Emma made him wash his hands before he fingered her on the bathroom sink. _Before_ she made his toes curl in his boots with the way she reached for him when he was only there for her, when he couldn’t even believe how good she felt around his finger, so hot, wet, tight and _real._ She was really there kissing him and wanting him.

Killian almost laughs but she drinks down the sound before it can come to fruition, slipping her tongue into his open mouth and chasing the taste of him while he nearly swallows his own tongue, trying to catch her as his fingers slip and tighten on her ass.

He sets her down, not wanting to, but the strain on his arms is too much. He’d much rather he kill her in the figurative sense, like how he’s dying without her grinding against him, with his cock hard between his legs and dripping with her, pre-cum already leaking from the tip - and clinging to her fingers as she swipes them against his slit, rubbing over the sensitive flesh.

“Christ, Emma, I - fucking - I don’t have any STDs either if you want to, if you want to see my paperwork,” Killian stutters out, can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed when she’s curling her hand around him just right and tugging him gently until he’s resting against her belly again. 

Shuddering against the wall, Emma maneuvers her other hand between her own legs, and he knows the moment she finds her clit because her hand squeezes his cock tight enough to hurt and she says, “Later, please, just, god I need you to fuck me.”

It probably isn’t the best time for him to take her all in, when she’s begging him with that rough pitch to her voice, but he pauses and just looks at her. Flushed from her cheeks to her ears down to her neck, where the heat is pinking her breasts, the rosy shade of her nipples darkening, she looks impossibly delectable. If he wasn’t so needy, he'd spend hours giving into the need to suck at those pretty peaks, to mark them with the same hickeys flaring up on her neck.

(She's going to strangle him when she notices.)

If he wasn’t so needy, he’d drop down to his knees right now, drag her hand away from where she’s furiously rubbing at herself and flick his tongue against her sensitive little nub, draw further up and fuck her sweet center with his tongue, the taste of her addictive, the feeling of her shuddering against him incomparable, the pulsing of her clit when she comes just - the words to describe it are lost on his sex-hazed mind.

“Please, Killian,” she begs.

“Sorry, I was thinking,” he apologizes.

“Think later, fuck me now,” she says.

“You sure, I mean, we, last night,” he says - it was only hours ago, and he pushed her six times, he can’t believe she managed it, how broken she sounded on that last one, tears glistening in her eyes as he worked her -

He curses hard as she flips around, presses her hands to the slick wall and spreads her stance. Killian takes her advice - _think later_ \- and lines himself up against her, sliding his cock over her from clit to entrance, up and down over her until he’s sure he can handle it, and pushes in, but it’s a false start, bad angle. Frustration nearly catches him until Emma arches more, and this time he sinks inside, all the way until her ass is pressed to his thighs and he -

He’s never doing this again, he can’t ever do this again, because it’s just too good, and he could get addicted to this, to how she clenches around him and throws her head back to echo him, “We _cannot_ do this again,” funny how in sync they can be when they’re both trying to catch their breaths.

He rocks back and forth, shallow thrusts as he tries to adjust to the feeling of her against him with nothing between them, just her stretched around him, hot and wet and dragging heat up his spine like her nails at his back, her teeth at his neck, her heels digging into his ass, drawing him deeper - all of those feelings rolled into one and striking lightning, over and over and over -

Killian draws almost all the way out and then snaps back into her and she whines, hands slipping down the walls, so he keeps one hand tight on her hip, the other to her belly for support. Although he’s not sure how much he can give and for how long because he’s over exerted himself with that one thrust alone.

“This water is really hot,” he says stupidly as he stands there, buried in her, consumed by desire but unable to do anything about it because if he starts to fuck her, he’s not going to be able to stop -

“I like my showers hot,” Emma explains, her voice choked with something as thick as the steam curling around them.

They don’t say anything about how it feels - the words impossible anyway when he finally gives in, draws out and starts a rhythm. He tries to keep it slow, but she pounds her fist against the wall and says, “ _More._ ”

So, he picks up the pace until he’s punching into her, the slap of their bodies loud and echoing, and he joins the chorus, “God, do you know how good you look? How perfect you feel? So bloody perfect, I can’t believe you’re mine.”

He clenches his jaw at the next thrust because _she’s_ starting to clench, her belly quivering beneath his fingers. They’re both shaking and he wills his knees not to give out before she comes. He wants to rub his fingers over her clit, but he can’t do that and hold her up at the same time, so he prays that she comes while she’s wrapped around him - prays that she comes sometime within the next few minutes. He isn’t going to last anytime at all, he’s bloody _weak_.

“Emma, I need you to come for me, love, can you do that?”

He slows down a bit, but it doesn’t help the tight ball of heat from growing smaller, ready to implode, explode, go spiraling outwards and -

She pushes back against him and clenches at the same time and he isn’t expecting that, isn’t sure that even if he was expecting it whether it would even matter for the sound that drags from his throat and the way he plunges into her, the heat stoked past his breaking point. The angle changes, shallower, as his hand slips from her belly and Emma falls forward, fingers scrabbling on the tile before she catches on the wall and stops her fall, begging him loudly, “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

And Killian groans, can’t give her what she wants because the break in her voice is all he needs to buck once, twice, pushing as deep as he can go when he comes, spilling inside her, and he’s certain she doesn't realize what she’s doing when she nurses him through it, her body clenching rhythmically even though he hears her sad moan, knows she hasn’t come.

He slips out of her slowly, not thinking of much when he turns her around, not thinking of anything but the disappointed tilt to her lips. Her hands press behind her, holding her up against the wall.

“Sorry, I couldn’t come for you,” Emma apologizes, frustration, sarcasm, and amusement warring with themselves - it’s the last that she gives into, drawing her head back against the tiles, smiling. “But I really wanted to, _oh -”_

She shudders bodily when Killian slips his fingers between her legs, dancing through the wet curls, down past where the hair is sparser and it’s just her wet folds and his sticky release dripping out of her and over his fingers. Apologies bubble up out of him while she laughs but not quite, the humored sound cut short every second by a hiccupped breath, and when he curls two fingers into her, apologizing the whole time, the laughter stops altogether, replaced with a near constant stream of whimpers to match every word leaving his mouth.

Killian draws his palm up so when she starts to fuck herself on his fingers, her clit grinds against him, the whimpers ricochet off the shower walls, noise whistling through her teeth like she’s trying not to get louder. He has half a mind to ignore the part of him that’s squeamish about tasting himself to drop to his knees and really make her scream; has half a mind to, and then it’s all he wants to do, tuning himself to that one purpose when she bears down on him -

She makes it so easy for him to slip her leg over his shoulder and get into the perfect position to capture her clit between his lips and lap at the sweetly throbbing nub. Emma rewards him with his name said so loud, a surprised question, a desperate plea that she ends up cursing right after, “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” and hits an even higher pitch when he starts to suck on the sensitive bud. She’s so close, taut, her body held up on a wire as she tries to wriggle away from him, but there’s no way he’s letting her go, not now. He releases her clit from between his lips and licks furiously, pushing her further up the wall, her hands tugging and tearing at his hair, palms pushing at his head.

“Killian,” she very nearly screams as she comes, and it isn’t what he was seeking but he's satisfied with it, can settle  for her hands rubbing at his abused scalp. It’s almost as good as a true scream, probably better for her lungs.

He cracks a smile.

Standing up is painful, his knees aching just from that short moment on the unforgiving floor. His muscles feel pulled too, but all of that doesn’t compare to the satisfaction, the pleasure still chasing currents in his belly to his fingertips. Killian feels electrified, a conduit passing along the feeling to Emma’s skin; she jumps when he rubs his knuckles into her hips. He stands to his feet and her hands fall with his rise, coming to a rest against his chest.

He becomes aware of things in heartbeats - the water splashing behind him, the fog filling the entire bathroom, the blood seeping back into his brain.

Thought returns to Emma first.

“Why’d you - you get off on that, don’t you?” she asks as he rests against her. She slaps her hands to his chest, and _laughs_ around her exclaimed, “That’s your kink!”

But when thought hits him, it is whiplash fast. He scratches at his chin, considering this, not that he hasn’t given past thought to his sexual...quirks - that’s the word for it, much better than _kink_.

(He hopes she didn’t learn that one from her mother).

“Feeling you come? I _do_ enjoy putting my talents to use for such a... _noble_ purpose.”

“You’re so giving,” Emma says, sarcasm to a maximum, and she runs her fingers over his chest, looping patterns in his chest hair, casually asking, “What else?” like there has to be something else.

She’s right.

Killian flushes hot. Lying would be a bad idea, and he’s been on such a roll with the good ones, no need to kill his winning streak by hiding what she’s probably already gathered. Still, he grabs her by the waist and drags her back under the full spray of the water so his confession is mostly muffled when he says, “I really like seeing my hickeys on you.”

“Marking your territory,” she mutters, spitting water and whipping him in the face as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Of course.”

“Okay, you asked,” he grumbles.

Her face falls. “I’m not _judging_ ,” she says, apologetically quiet. “I mean, I have...a few...I think?”

“Oh ho, ho,” Killian wiggles his eyebrows teasingly, drawing a dismissive head shake but her expression is more open, so he asks, “Do you want to tell me?”

“No,” she says, “No, I really don’t because it’s embarrassing and yours is _nice_ , mine is like...what the fuck,” she says.

Nice?

He stares at the line of hickeys on her neck, watching as realization dawns and her double dimples flash. _I feel like we had this conversation about hickeys before_ , maybe they were having different conversations because she _likes_ it too and he didn’t even realize.

The desire to add more kicks in. Hard. Killian kicks it right back, punts it left field, out of sight, out of mind.

Sighing, he lifts her chin to stare at her directly. “If you’re into feet, Emma, they do have help for that.”

Emma steps on his foot. Hard. While he’s wincing, she says, “I just like it when you pull my hair, okay. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

(That’s too much.)

“And I really like it when you talk to me while we’re...I like when you call me beautiful,” she says in a whispered stream that he’s sure she doesn’t actually want him to hear.

But he does, doesn’t really get what’s so ‘what the fuck’ about either of those things, how it isn’t _nice_ that she wants him to compliment her or wind his fingers through her hair. On his list of nice things, that would probably top it along with days off and partially melted ice cream, both of which he can see in his very near future.

If they ever actually get out the shower.

Killian grasps her face and says, “If we had time, I’d indulge you, tell you how gorgeous you look when you’re on the brink - but I think we should actually get clean so you can eat something before you go.”

“Food, coffee,” she moans, and woefully, the sound is so keening that he feels a stirring again.

He willfully ignores her, grabbing for the shower gel, only to have her offer him her hand.

“You’re going to smell like me,” he says.

“Yep. I know you’re excited,” she says.

And looks down at his cock to punctuate her words.

She might be right about the marking his territory thing, fuck.

Ignoring her again, he turns around so he can give her some semblance of privacy as she cleans. She hums as she washes, a tune he’s sure is “I’m too sexy,” but he isn’t going to ask for confirmation. He just lets the sound mute out his thoughts (the errant ones that he can no longer indulge in), lets it become as soothing as the pounding of the water on the shower floor and the creaking announcing the impending loss of heat.

He turns around and rushes Emma through showering off the soap despite her protests, just the thought of the water chilling his skin enough to calm the usual fever of touching her - at least long enough for him to get her bundled in his towel and out of the shower. He has to leave the bathroom to grab himself a towel, grateful for the carpeting to catch the water from his dripping form and for the heat keeping him from chilling himself to the bone.

He doesn’t mind the cold, but he prefers not to feel it on his naked form.

Killian follows her trail into his room and pointedly walks towards his dresser, ignoring her pulling on her underwear as best he can when the image is ingrained on his mind. Strawberries. It had to be strawberries.

“What are you thinking about?” Emma asks.

“I haven’t a thought in my head,” Killian lies.

Which she sees right through, laughing, “Yeah I know what that means. You’re going to get tired of it soon.”

“Tired of what?” He twists around, trying to catch her eye. “Please don’t delude yourself. I’ll never be tired of you.”

“That’s sweet,” Emma says, yawns as she tugs her sweater over her head, a heavy woolen thing that looks as soft as the expression on her face. She rubs at her eyes while chewing on her bottom lip, and when finally she releases it, she says, “Hey, can I just see your test results?”

He barely gives it a moment’s thought before he tosses his shirt over his shoulder and crosses the room to his file cabinet.

“Of course you keep it in there. Let me guess, you’ve got it alphabetized and this is under the letter ‘R’?”

Killian flips past the ‘R’ folder, smirking to himself as he slips his hand into the folder labelled ‘S,’ sifting through the papers while he says, “Close, but you’re lacking creativity, darling. R for Results is boring. S for Sex, Emma, is far better.”

“That’s not creative. That’s perverted,” Emma says.

“Seems pretty interchangeable to me,” he replies as he finds this year’s results. When he arcs around, Emma is standing behind him, fully dressed, with the sweater’s low collar doing nothing to hide the red marks on her neck. He makes a disappointed noise as she snatches it from his hand, and says, “I know, I know. I’m dressed. It sucks.”

She scans the paper and after a moment, she hands it back to him and says, “Thank you.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” he replies.

He turns to drop the results back down into his file cabinet, shoving it closed with his elbow. Killian mulls over his next words. Emma trusts him, so she must be _certain_ , but - he thinks of Jefferson and Rose and things he very much does not want in the near future. He wishes he had some guidance on how to ask, perhaps should’ve paid attention more during the sex drive and picked up a few pointers on how to tell your girlfriend you’re terrified of - he stutters out, “But, ah, the birth control. I don’t want -”

“Oh, god, yeah, that? It’s not new, so you really don’t have the month before it kicks in stuff to worry about. I’ve been on it since…” She stares at him and he nods his understanding - and his relief, he can’t hide that. He loops his arm around her shoulder and leads her to his bed, pulling her down with him while she says, “My mother made sure of that, in case, I wanted - she just wanted me to be careful.”

Her cheeks lift with her crooked smile, affection twinkling in her eyes. He could get lost in the look.

Or he could have the awful thought that Principal Blanchard would be proud of her daughter.

For keeping it safe.

(And classy.)

“And then she decided to tell me all about every possible sex act in her endeavor to make sure I know everything before I go into it. And I mean _everything_.”

Her mother would be _so_ proud.

(His mother would be…)

It irks him that he wants to smile, but he comes up short, comes up empty, the absence as sharp as it has ever been. How wonderfully self-defeating it is to turn his own joking thought into _this_ \- and to have Emma see as he slips and slides into the past, running through dear, treasured memories ( _only_ memories) at every turn. He’s not broken, he’s not, but his words are when he says, “Your mother loves you so much. I -”

Emma reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together, the simple affection of it...he didn’t even realize he needed it.

Perhaps he is a little broken, then, but perhaps the cracks are there to make it easy for the words to free themselves from where he always keeps them locked away.

(Perhaps the cracks are there to let Emma in.)

“I miss my mother.”

She nods at him to continue, and the relief sags in his shoulders at the admission, at her acceptance. Because Killian’s had people willing to listen before. Tink, Jefferson, Victor, Dr. Hopper, the social workers. But he’s never _wanted_ them to tell them, not the way he wants to tell Emma right now because she’ll _listen_.

He knows this. He knows _her_.

And Killian wants her to know him, too.

“She wasn’t as...earnest as your mother,” he says, which has Emma shaking her head; perhaps it’s an understatement. His mother was so understated - _dark dresses, dark shoes, flowers tucked within her apron_. He tries to find the words to convey that, says, “But, she always knew the right thing to do when something went wrong. Always, no matter whether it was scolding the local, frankly, evil cat for scratching Liam - at the time, I was certain she could speak Cat because that’s the only time I ever saw it look so guilty - or letting me stay home when I faked sickness. I used to do so a lot after Liam got into the boy's academy.”

He scratches at his ear and Emma leans into him, pressing her nose to his neck - _chocolate bars broken in threes, paint smears on her cheeks, flower in her braid_ \- and the words just spill, “I was lonely. Painfully so and the only thing that made it better was being able to sit home with her and watch her work. My mother did so many hours at the local grocery that her days off were few, but that was just a way to pay for us. That wasn’t her true work. She was an artist, used to paint the most beautiful pictures.”

Instantly, Emma lifts her nose from his neck - and he wanted her to know, but she already does, looking towards the seascape on his wall while she says, “I can see that.”

“Talented, right?” He drifts back into his recollection, drifts - _crumpled papers, forehead kisses, flowers pressed into dye -_ “And she was kind enough to let me help. We were going to make a children’s book together about a selkie. I loved selkies and fairies and I even had a soft spot for gnomes and elves.”

Emma’s hand reaches up to his ears, pulling before he can stop her (or even think to - he has ears like his mother’s.) He’s sure the tips are red, painted by her delighted laughter. He still likes selkies, fairies, gnomes, but he’s beginning to feel like he needs to draw a line between himself and elves. If only to preserve some of the dignity he has left.

He’d make for a pretty good elf, if he shaved, but he bites his tongue on that one.

Still he wants to tell her how his mother used to pinch them gently before sending him on his way to school.

“The book, she never got to finish it. She got sick and we came here to be with her sisters. Liam and I.”

(Flowers; he misses them. Liam had, too.)

Emma jerks up again, her eyes wide, wrinkles rising on the bridge of her nose. “Oh gods, you’re not telling me you’re _related_ to Ratched?”

His mother would have laughed.

His mother would have...she would have liked Emma.

He smiles and says, “No, dear god, no, Emma, and I’m horrified you’d think so. Real sisters. Though, as soon as Liam was old enough, they went and abandoned ship. Took themselves somewhere south, where it’s warmer. Must have gotten the idea from my dad because they left me here with Ratched instead of taking me down with them after Liam passed.”

It sounds sad, probably, but he can’t find it in himself to feel that way. He misses his mother, her flowers and her thick dark hair and her smile as he clung to her ankle. He misses Liam, simultaneously condescending and loving as he was. Misses when it was the three of them. The two of them.

Her sisters, however, he doesn’t miss at all.

He shrugs. “But I can’t say I bemoan that. I’d rather be here.”

“I’d rather you be here, too,” she says.

“Well, since we’re in agreement…”

Killian goes quiet. He can tell her more another time; she would like that. He can see it in her face as she stares at his ears, smiling in her not so secret joke.

Emma shifts against him, her hand reaching up to her neck. Killian thought he could resist, but the bow of her head as she strokes at her marked skin undoes him. He can’t do anything more than lift Emma’s chin to catch her tongue sweeping her bottom lip in eager anticipation. He’s left the hunger behind (he hopes) but he still sways forward when she kisses him, dips her tongue inside his mouth, pushing and pulling at his. He still makes a noise when she leaves his mouth behind to tug his lip between her teeth, a gentle bite. He still - god, he’s still hungry and he skims his hands up her waist, at least keeping it somewhere in the realm of sensual instead of sexual when he draws his hands over her breasts, lightly massaging them through the thick material of her sweater.

She pulls back, nudging his nose, and heaving into his hands, “I have a question - seriously, why are you so good at this?”

“Practice?” he answers - means to go back to kissing her, but gets caught in his own truth. Drawing back further, he says, “There was a girl. From a different school. She kind of...took me under her wing.”

“You had a sex teacher?” Emma asks, more like a statement, right to the point with that one, as usual.

“Emma, it wasn’t like that.”

Her expression doesn’t change, not really, but she licks at her lip like she wants to say something.

“So, you were dating?”

“No, we were never dating. It was never about that. I mean, it wasn’t just physical, we were - and are - friends, but she didn’t like me like that. And I -”

He dips his head, his eyes locked on hers. He’s not trying to apologize for it - for spending so long liking her that he can’t even recall when it first started except that he’d go out of his way to be near her just because she never went out of her way not to be near him.

“You liked me,” Emma says.

The surprise in her tone gets him the same way it always does, threatening to overcome him with the need to make her see what he does - and now with a healthy dose of anger at Neal for clouding her sight so, for coloring her tone with the surprise that he could like her without expecting a thing in return. Hoping for, but never expecting.

“You love me,” he says, trying to ease the weight from her words.

She punches at him lightly and then curls her fingers around his shirt, pulling him into her on the bed. “I need to go home because it doesn’t seem like I’m getting any food here. Or coffee.”

“You’re probably right.” He snakes his arm back around her, pulling her close enough for added effect when he says, “I might have to take you back to bed if you stay here any longer.”

“And that’s my cue.”

“Exit stage left,” he shoots back.

She disentangles their arms and scrambles to her feet. Just to make her roll her eyes, Killian exhales a deliberately mournful groan, only to be cut short when she bends to kiss him on the cheek.

“Let me finish getting dressed, and I’ll walk you out,” he says.

While he’s dressing, Emma patters around his bedroom. She moves from flipping through the homework piled on his desk, for a moment lingering on the pictures of them tacked to his wall, and then to the seascapes of his mother’s, drawing her fingers over the frame. He’s just tugging his jeans up his hips when Emma wanders to his file cabinet. It’s like she’s curious for the first time, or for the first time just comfortable showing it.

He should’ve told her sooner.

He should tell her more.

“Okay but, your file cabinet is huge, what could you possibly keep in here?” Emma asks as he pulls on his socks.

“Schoolwork, paperwork.”

“Paperwork, office boy? You’re 18 not 80.”

Killian pauses before he says, “From my mother and my brother’s - The details of my foster arrangement.”

The latter gives him pause, too. He still has...he should tell her.

Emma nods and is quick to say, “I’d imagine you’d have that framed, ‘Nurse Ratched, My Legal Guardian.’”

“She does have a first name,” he says.

Emma lifts her eyebrows in disbelief. “And that is?”

“Agora,” he supplies.

“That’s just cruel,” Emma says.

He stuffs his feet into his boots, tying them with difficulty, his fingers working against him - he’s not sure whether it can be considered subconscious self-sabotage when he’s quite aware that he doesn’t want Emma to leave just yet; with homework and supplements looming ahead of him, drawing out this moment seems like the way to go.

“Need help? Don’t they teach you how to tie your shoes in Kindergarten, or did they neglect that overseas?” Emma says.

He grins, finally getting the first boot laced.

“Alas my childhood education was sorely lacking in shoe tying courses. I guess we were too focused on the more important things, like wooing lovely American lasses with tendencies for the sarcastic and violent.”

Second boot laced, he sits on the floor, staring at Emma until she steps up to him, offering him a hand.

“Hey, I’m not that sarcastic,” Emma says.

“You would think violence would be the part to protest,” Killian says, allowing her to help him to his feet.

She grabs her coat off the back of his chair and slings her bag over her shoulder. After a minute, she stops fiddling with her sleeves and comments, “The sun’s risen.”

“Yeah.”

She lingers on that, staring out his window, before sighing and saying, “I don’t want to do homework or study for that English practice AP or the ACT.”

Chuckling, he places his hands on her hips, lets them fall just a little lower as he wheels her out the room.

“I can walk without your hands on my ass,” Emma says.

“You can? Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

She barrels down the stairs, out of his reach and is almost out the door while he’s still slipping his arms into his coat sleeves.

“It’s cold,” she says. “I hate the cold. Car’s going to take a few minutes to warm up, too.”

She moves faster, gets in her car and starts it up, letting it run. Killian leans against her doorframe and waits for her to break the silence.

“We...should do this again, right?” she says.

He should tell her...

“I’m old enough to be my own legal guardian. There’s still paperwork to file and the like, but -”

“Are you saying you’ll kick Ratched out of your house so you can have sex with me? Thank you for focusing on the important things,” Emma says.

Her nonchalance irritates, but it isn’t like he’s told her that his life is truly about to become his own, and that he has no idea what to think of that. He can only fault himself for that.

So, he meets her nonchalance with some of his own, says, “What I’m saying is, I already made the steps to live on my own, so if you want to come over, it won’t be a problem.”

“Like I said,” Emma says.

He stays silent, so she says, “Don’t pout, I’m just teasing. And, uh, you can, text me later though? We can keep each other company through homework.”

He nods.

“Go home and get some breakfast.”

She closes the door, but doesn't leave, instead rolling down the window to say, “Don’t forget to correct your French mistakes. I saw a few on your homework.”

Killian smirks and says, “I won’t forget.” He pauses for good measure, a momentary lapse to lull her into a false sense of ‘I got away with this insult’ security, and then says, “Don’t forget to tighten up your scarf a bit, throw on that turtleneck before you greet your parents. You’ve got a little something on your neck.”

He widens his smirk into a toothy grin while she rolls up her window, cursing him. Emma lets her eyes flicker to the mirror so she can adjust her scarf to hide the marks on her neck. That done she waves her hand at him, lips pursed together in annoyance.

“Oh, and don’t worry much, Emma. I promise I won’t tell anyone that you’re into feet.”

She hears him loud and clear, flips him off through the windshield, and Killian watches her go with a smile on his lips.

He feels tired yet too awake to sleep, so he grabs his wallet, locks up the house and takes a lazy walk down towards Mama’s. He can get something for breakfast there. Granny’s would be the better option, but he’s certain he won't make it that far in his current condition, said condition being that he just spent an entire night with Emma sleeping by his side, and the prospect of having many more nights like that in the future is _more_ than a prospect.

If he can prove he’s capable of living on his own, managing his own finances, his living arrangement, his care - all those things that amount to whether he can be An Adult. It’s starting to sink in like the cold wind at his back as he treks forward, his thoughts of his mother, of his brother, of her sisters, of his father drawing them to the forefront, that he has been capable of living on his own for a long time, that he has been ready for it since he sat at the sentencing for Gold’s trial and watched as Gold’s freedom slipped away.

He never considered that to be a freeing moment for himself, always thinking of everything that Gold had taken from him, from others, and the long lasting reach of that, of Killian’s ostracizing and Belle’s well-deserved anger. But it isn’t until now -

It isn’t until _Emma_ , that he’s been able to see all that it has given him. The material: a hefty sum of restitution in a trust he’s now old enough to access, the guarantee of a home that is totally and completely his, and most importantly, an excellent answer to most application supplements - _Describe a situation in which you struggled, Describe a situation in which you had to make a quick decision, Describe a time that you had to go above and beyond to get the job done_.

And then there’s the immaterial, what most days, he still can’t grasp as real: the perfect start to a _future_ he doesn’t have to be alone in.

Emma’s words echo, “you’re moving her out so you can have sex with me,” and a part of him wishes he’d given her a different answer, that he hadn’t given into the nonchalance and told her that he was moving Ratched out so he could have a future, one that includes Emma.

And if that involves an impressive amount of sex, well, that's just a part of the package.

Mama’s appears before him and he swings open the door, grateful to be out of the cold and in the ( _should be_ ) empty diner, but he’s only mildly surprised to see Tink and her Aunt Astrid tucked in a booth. He nearly steps back outside, not wanting to intrude - and cowardly because Tink saw him leave with Emma last night, had smiled in encouragement as Emma tugged him through the other costumed students.

Killian gives into bravery and nods a quiet greeting at the waitress at the counter as he walks over to Tink and Astrid’s booth and says, “Good morning, Tink. Astrid. You’re looking lovely today.”

Astrid stands, throwing her arms around him in a warm greeting. When she pulls back, she says, voice laced with concern, “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it? Tink tells me you guys stayed out late.”

Tink tells her everything. Astrid is the only person she _can_ tell everything to.

Tink’s smile is anything but sneaky when she says, “Oh no, Killian was a good boy who went and tucked in early.”

“On Halloween?” Astrid asks, hands clasped to her waist in disbelief.

Killian shrugs, wills a smile onto his face that isn’t revealing and says, “I wanted a night of proper sleep. I have applications to finish soon. Not all of us can be as decisive as Tink.”

Kindly, Tink lets the topic move on, although when he sits down beside her after Astrid’s reseated herself, Tink grins at him, that too bright one that means she’s only waiting for an opening to bring it back up again. He just hopes it’ll be a moment where Astrid isn’t around to hear Tink probe at him about his and Emma’s ‘activities.’ It’s her new designation for them since she told Killian about how Ruby put Emma in the hot seat, only called that because of how hot and red Emma’s face grew under Ruby's “just how _much_ have you and Killian done?” questions. He’d considered having a talk with Ruby about that, but he’s smart enough to know that she’d just turn the questions on him instead, and Emma would rather he left her at Ruby’s mercy than make it worse by butting in.

She can save herself from that nightmare - but that doesn’t mean he can’t help her a little by glaring at Tink out of the corner of his eye.

“And all that homework, studying, and...video gaming? That’s what boys your age do nowadays, right?” Astrid draws him out of the glare, claps her hand over her mouth as she says, “Oh goodness, I’m sounding like a grandmother.”

She smiles wearily at herself while Tink taps her fingers on the table, a sign that she wants to say something but won’t for Astrid’s sake. Just as Killian keeps his mouth shut, too, about Tink’s admissions on trying to get Astrid to stop dressing like one.

“Soon, you’ll be calling us the youth and telling us to get off your well-manicured lawn,” Killian jokes.

“Oh, I’ll leave that to Leroy,” Astrid says.

Smart move. Leroy’s far better at the crankiness than she is.

She smiles and then startles to life, eyes going round and wide, hands rising before her, and says, “Oh, by the way, he wanted to recruit you for the next fair. He said you were good with the wiring and he could use an extra pair of hands.”

“ _Did_ he say that?” Tink asks.

She has every right to sound so suspicious. Leroy isn’t exactly known for his kind compliments. Or for asking for assistance. Or for working well with others. Or for _asking_ for things in general. Shouting is more his approach to any and all situations.

Astrid wilts, recognizing their disbelief.

“In more colorful terms, yes, but that was the message behind it,” she says.

Not wanting to press her - Astrid’s too sweet for their teasing, and even if he’s still scratching his head as to how she and Leroy manage to work when there’s nothing to suggest she has some hidden mutant sized capacity for love and understanding - Killian assures her, “I’ll give him a call. If I have the time, I’ll be happy to do it.”

“Thank you,” Astrid says, and it might be the product of her being a former nun or just who she is at heart, but her sincerity strikes him deep.

They lull into a quiet, only broken by the waitress coming over with Astrid and Tink’s meals. Killian places his order and she taps her hand on his shoulder, smiling so he knows his hash browns are going to be excellent, crispy and just on the edge of burnt.

He hopes Emma's breakfast is just as good as his.

His hopes, or the direction of those hopes must be obvious because around a mouthful of food, Tink says, “Killian and Emma are dating. It’s cute.”

“It is,” Killian agrees, recovering remarkably well if he does say so. He doesn’t even glare at Tink, just smiles at Astrid and says, “Telling your aunt about my romantic life is not, however. Pity that, right?”

Astrid’s laugh tugs at him, heartstrings in the sound, pulled tighter with the rising pitch. Everything is hitting him so hard today.

Astrid has his mother's hair color, a thought that has struck him before but it’s never been enough to make him swallow over a lump; she’s never laughed so brightly at his jokes, never made him think of his mother struggling to get him into his clothes, laughing the whole time he fought her.

He’s a bit amazed he remembers that, almost certain he doesn’t because the picture is too clear, he was too young. And yet, he can feel his mother’s hand tracing the bottom of his feet.

His left foot itches and tingles, eager to be scratched.

“Right, it is a pity that Tink didn’t trust you to tell me.” She turns to Tink and says, “He’d have told me himself.”

She says this with such certainty that Killian grits his teeth in embarrassment.

She's right.

He’d have told her, just like he’s told her far too much in little snippets, of his matches, of his classes and tests, of Victor and Jefferson and the team, every single one of the assholes that make waking up at the dead of morning to run laps and train worth it. He’d have told Astrid all about Emma the way he has for two years now, a slip here of "she was in the play and she was fantastic, despite what Tink will tell you about her looking like she wanted to murder everyone; it was perfectly in character” and a slip up there of “French is hellish when you’re missing the only person as far behind as you are. Also, Gaston doesn’t understand a joke.”

It doesn’t catch him unawares because he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s run off the edge of an emotional cliff this morning and it doesn’t look like he’ll be crawling his way back up any time soon, so he will just have to take the feelings as they come. He even welcomes the warm glow of knowing that he’d have told her because she actually wants him to.

“So, Killian…” Astrid pauses. “Are there any particular questions I should be asking here or should I just be offering my congratulations?”

“The latter is fine with me, Astrid,” Killian says.

“Well, congratulations,” she says.

He doesn’t have to wait more than a beat for Tink to ruin the moment by jumping ten thousand steps ahead, dreaming overwhelmingly big - “You sound like he just got engaged.”

“Tink,” Astrid says gently.

Always gently. Even when Killian thinks strangling her is more appropriate. But it is Tink. Gentle is the way to go with her. She’s had enough rough.

“Alright, alright. But watch and see. It’ll happen.”

He’s forever grateful for the waitress’s timing when she steps up to their table and unceremoniously drops his breakfast down before him, and lo and behold everything is as crispy as he expected it to be.

“You tell a guy his cooking is fantastic and suddenly it actually turns fantastic,” Tink says in wonder while Killian’s too busy clearing his plate as fast as he can lift his fork to his mouth.

She waves them in and in a hushed whisper, says, “Don't let anyone else in on the secret. If Granny finds out she might have competition…”

Killian sets down his fork only to say, “No one needs a war on Main Street.”

“What we do need are some chocolate milkshakes and a donut,” Astrid suggests, looking towards the counter to try and catch the waitress’ eye.

“I’ll have the almond glazed one,” Killian tells her, goes back to inhaling his food.

Tink kicks him under the table. “Eating her favorite food? You’re weak,” she whispers, this time only loud enough for Killian to hear the teasing in her voice.

He can only hum his agreement.

-

Emma never thought that pull in her legs would ever feel good, but it does, as do the twinges in her neck from his lips and that _ache_ between her legs. Gods, she feels _good_ , and Ruby would call it "well fucked out."

Ruby would be right; she too often is.

Emma pulls up to her house and into the driveway. Her father must be getting ready to go because his car’s lit up and humming in the driveway. Perfect timing. With her mother doing that...thing (Emma forgot to ask) with Ariel today, the house will be free and clear for her to just...bask in her moment.

Because this is a moment. A good moment.

(A well-fucked out moment.)

(Thank you, Ruby-voice in her head.)

It’s a good moment, a perfect one, even, if she’s thinking about it, which is hard when she’s actually exhausted beyond the pleasant ache in her bones, the “only got three hours of sleep because _Killian_ and haven’t yet had coffee because _Killian_ ” exhaustion.

(“Because Killian” sounds like something to print on a shirt.)

She times it perfectly. Her dad’s heating up his car so he’ll have only a second to say, “Hello, good morning, how was your night?” and be unworried about her grunted response because duty calls and Leroy isn’t going to haul himself in for shouting about the terrors of the night at 4 in the morning.

Emma unlocks the door, enters the house and pops her head in the kitchen, nodding at her father, and he plays his part perfectly, says, “Hello. Good morning! It’s a bit early for you, isn't it? How was your night?”

She grunts like she’s still tired which is easy when the warmth of her kitchen is reaching underneath her coat, gloves, and scarf (still carefully arranged over Killian's _kink_.) She’s already cozy, ready to toe off her boots and fall asleep on the kitchen floor.

“Talk more later. Sleep now,” she says and exits the kitchen.

She’s just crossing the boundary line, almost bed-ward bound when he says, “Hey, come back a minute.”

Emma twists about, steps back into the kitchen, and says, “What’s up?”

She looks at her father, truly looks at him and it does her no favors, seeing the lines etched into his forehead, as he asks, “Can you be truthful with me, Emma?”

All it does is make her wary.

“90% of the time, but I feel like this is going to be one of those 10% times,” Emma says.

His lips purse tighter together.

Emma takes it in stride, joking, “I’m right, aren't I?”

Her father frowns deeper. He digs his hands into his back pockets, straightens his stance - the worst isn’t coming, the worst is here - and says, “You didn’t come from Ruby’s this morning.”

He doesn't sound accusing, just certain. Emma’s eyes flash in horror because he saw (the hickeys? the wet hair? the...oh god...the well-fucked out gait to her walk... _fucking hell_ ) - and it is okay for her mother to know. Emma has had the sex talk with her so many times that she could probably ask her for lube without batting an eye (cringing at herself is another story, however) but her father was smart enough to run every time her mother sat her down with ‘The Diagrams’. Emma’s as ready to talk to him about this as she is to eat an entire pine cone. In fact, she can go grab one right now. It’s just a few feet to the backdoor and the safety of the woods. Just a few feet and she can make her escape into the great unknown.

Her eyes dart to the backdoor, a strangled noise stuck in her throat.

He gives her the fleeing perp stance, raising his hands like he won't hurt her, but he’ll tackle her if she forces his hands.

“Please, don’t run away. I just want to know that you were in a safe place last night. Emma, I worry. You’re my baby girl. I can't lose you."

She’s about to be sarcastic with him because saying, “like that time you lost me in Granny’s because I hid in the microwave cart?” is easier than acknowledging any of what went on last night, but stops herself just short. Sighing, she forgets about her escape (just barely) and walks closer to him, placing her hand on his arm and looking him straight in the face as she says, “I was, I promise.”

“Thank god,” he says, and wraps her up in his arms. “I watched this Lifetime movie…”

The pieces all fall into place - “The one where the teen runs off with the forty year old man, oh my god, Dad,” she says, drawing out of his embrace.

“It was the only thing on," he whines.

As if that’ll work on her. Telling him to cut the bullshit is liable to land her a drive down to the station with him so she goes for excruciatingly sarcastic instead.

“We have Netflix. It was not the only thing on. You - you have an addiction, and it’s time for an intervention. I’ll gather the town, we’ll meet at Town Hall, have ourselves a circle. Hey, maybe even give Graham the August intervention at the same time."

He draws in a breath and says quietly, “Emma. Don’t you have homework?”

Not one to be deterred when she’s on such a perfect “avoiding the original topic” roll, Emma says, “Nothing is more important than making sure my father is happy, healthy, and clean. We need to purge you of the Lifetime Movie Network.”

“Go do your homework or else…”

Emma leans forward, waiting. When no response is forthcoming, she says, “You’ll be forced to face your problem?”

“I’ll tell your mother.”

Emma's face slacks. So, she _is_ someone to be deterred. Anyone would be in the face of the Inquisition.

“That's cold,” she says.

“Hard times call for hard measures. I’m going to go to the station. Do you want me to pick up your prescription on the way home?”

Prescription?

Forgive her, she’s tired; it takes a _long_ moment before Emma blanches in realization. Any other time, she wouldn’t care. Any other time, she wouldn’t be so aware of just how shallow her breath can get when she’s -

_Gods._

“No, that’s fine. I’ll get it tomorrow,” she says in a rush that evidently says more than she’d like it to say because her father winces, and it isn’t like he doesn’t know what he’s picking up, but they’ve never talked about it, and gods, she’s back at square one. She should’ve just eaten the pine cone.

“Alright. See you later, sweetheart.”

He pats her on the shoulder and then steps backwards, nodding at her before he turns to the door and leaves. She listens to the key turn in the lock and slumps in relief.

Her father, the hero, saving Emma one avoided conversation at a time.

Still, she’s going to put the child lock on LMN before he gets any other ideas about her running off with forty year old men and murdering their wives. Or worse, watches Cyber Seduction. That one’s just _terrible._

Who knew Peter Pan could fall so far?


	14. and i call and i call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left after this AAAAAH. I hope y'all enjoy this one and thank you so much for sharing your love of this fic with me! It means the world to me!

It is a universal truth that Mondays are the actual worst. This truth acknowledged, Emma nearly stumbling down the stairs in a surprised missed step is just par for the Monday course.

Marian carries herself up the stairs quickly, stopping Emma from slipping down further. She pats at Emma’s chest and back, plainly checking to make sure she's still alive while she questions, “Breathing? Are you breathing, Emma?”

“You didn’t scare the life out of me,” Emma answers, pushing her away gently.

“Good,” Marian says, worry easing from her voice. She steps back down the stairs, putting distance between them. “You didn’t reply to your texts,” Marian explains, crossing her arms protectively over her chest like she should be the one apologizing to Emma. “I was worried...and I wanted to drive you to school this morning. We haven’t really talked in a while.”

Emma slinks down. She’s a bad terrible friend who spent all of yesterday sleeping and being a bad, terrible student (coincidentally) and a bad, terrible daughter (it’s a confluence of coincidences, and so she wasn’t that bad of a student; she got some SAT and ACT studying in while she was hiding out from her parents in her room).

Thus, she probably deserves the throbbing in her stubbed toe and worse. She’s due for a good chastising, but Marian won’t give it to her. It’s the way they work. They leave the shaming to Ruby’s wagging fingers and sharp tongue, and handle their apologies with a little more grace.

“Let me just get my bag and we can go?” Emma says, stumbling back up the stairs because grace, yeah, she’s handling this whole thing with grace. Graceful as a Swan.

Marian brightens easily, holding her hands out as if to catch Emma.

“Cool! I’ll grab your coffee,” she says when she’s certain Emma isn’t going to fall down the stairs again - at least she seems sure; Emma, not so much. Sleep and…other tiring activities are still clinging to her limbs.

She hurries back up the stairs before Marian can read that on her face.

Marian’s standing by the kitchen counter, sipping at her own gifted hot chocolate when Emma enters the kitchen. She can smell the chocolate - Emma was a bad, terrible daughter yesterday, and still her mother made the syrup and cocoa that she was supposed to help with.

Marian nods at her. “Yeah, it’s in your coffee. Thank your dad,” she says.

Her father stamps into the kitchen and Emma immediately walks over and kisses him on the cheek, zipping off a “Thank you,” for both her and Marian's to-go cups before swinging open the door and shouldering Marian outside.

Marian walks with purpose, and that usually keeps Emma and her in step with one another, but she’s slower than usual, lingering behind. Emma isn’t worried but she falls back anyway, slowing her step.

When Marian doesn’t say anything as they walk the half a block to where she parked, Emma pinches her expression, and says, “I trust you, Marian.”

She means it as ‘You can tell me anything, really,’ but Marian translates...well either Marian’s reading into things or following Emma’s example and deflecting -

“No, I wasn’t sent by Ruby to scout out just how much sex Killian and you had this weekend,” Marian answers.

Emma scowls and breathes a sigh of relief at the same time, a feat she manages probably with a less than attractive twisting of her features.

Marian slows to a standstill. “So you did have sex.”

Emma freezes as Marian nods like she’s committing this information to memory. She stares at Emma a beat, and then whips out of her phone like she’s about to text it, too.

She trusts Marian. She does. Trust - because trust is a thing that friends share and if you don’t have that between friends, what do you have?

Reacting blindly, Emma reaches for the phone to snatch it out of Marian’s betraying fingers when Marian smiles at her, lifting her phone above her head. She’s just that inch taller that Emma can’t grab her phone without resorting to underhanded tactics and hitting Marian hard enough to drop her arm. Which she’s considering - only for a moment though, because Marian quickly says, “We’re all meeting at my house tomorrow night. Is that alright with you?”

When she drops her phone back down, Marian turns over the screen to Elsa’s name and a perfectly capitalized and grammatically correct text from Elsa stating, “I do intend to join you all tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it!”

“Yes. Also,” Emma swats her on the shoulder, pouting. “Don’t do that to me.”

Marian laughs but she also pats Emma on the shoulder reassuringly. “Emma, let me make this clear. I don’t want to know how much sex you’re having.”

“Thank you,” Emma replies.

Marian moves around to the driver’s side of her car, unlocks it and calls out, “I don’t need that kind of jealousy in my life,” as she’s opening the door and climbing inside.

“Marian!”

Emma throws open her own door, but doesn’t slam it because it isn’t her car and sure, she’s shocked (maybe not appalled, but she probably should be) but not enough to cause damage to her friend’s self-bought and paid for vehicle.

“Emma, you look ecstatic. Sorry for wanting sex that good,” Marian apologizes.

She doesn’t sound that apologetic though, and as she pulls away from the curb, her mouth twists up in a smile.

“It isn’t just -”

Emma stammers.

The sex is good. The sex is excellent. The sex is enough to have her blushing furiously at Marian and hoping she can’t see Emma’s tomato red face out of the corner of her eye - or the way she fiddles with her arrow bracelet, thinking how Marian’s car smells like pine and she already misses the smell of cinnamon in her own car and seeing Faith swing back and forth from her mirror.

She smiles herself, the blush fading a little even though she feels even warmer, thinking how Marian’s car smells like pine and Killian, he smells like mint and so did Emma for hours after she left his house, woke up in her own bed smelling like him.

“Isn’t just what?”

Marian nods, waiting for Emma to go on. Now that she can speak about this without stupid metaphors and pretending that Marian isn’t complete aware of ‘The Boy’, it should be easier to voice it, but Emma has to take a deep breath before she can reply.

“Emma, we call this the honeymoon phase. Don’t worry. It’ll pass,” Marian says.

Apparently, Emma’s deep breath was taking too long.

“I don’t want it to,” Emma admits.

She _likes_ thinking about Killian when she’s not thinking about much at all. She likes being able to smile at nothing and everything. She _loves_ being happy enough that Marian will poke fun at it.

(But Ruby will be another story entirely.)

“Young love is so sweet,” Marian says dreamily.

Emma swats at her even though she’s driving because Marian deserves nothing less for sounding like a grandma in a seventeen year old’s body.

“Yes, and back in your day, you had to walk five thousand miles over the mountains in the snow for love.”

Emma rolls her eyes for so long that they’re on the next street by the time she gets her gaze steady.

Smoothly, Marian turns the conversation and says, “Hey, did I tell you that I won that archery scholarship? So if I get into Carleton, that’s $5000 towards my tuition!”

“That’s amazing,” Emma says, but she eyes Marian carefully, sees the tremble in her smile, the way her eyes are just a touch too wide.

“You’re going to get in.”

“There’s no guarantee,” Marian replies softly.

Emma places a hand on her shoulder, gently so that Marian doesn’t startle and send them speeding through the longest red light in existence - the perfect place for conversations like this apparently, and it’s a nice parallel (look at her putting her AP English lessons to use) that Emma’s the one giving advice this time.

“I know that, and I know me saying that you’re going to get in isn’t some magical spell that’ll assure that you do, but I believe you will and that’s what you need right now. You’re going to get in.”

Marian turns to look at her, her smile a little warmer, and says, “Thank you, Emma.”

“Besides, if you don’t I’ll burn down their admissions,” Emma says.

She’s serious. Marian knows she’s serious.

“You can’t do that. It’s too far away,” Marian reasons.

“They have planes, Marian,” Emma says, because Marian’s not the only one who can use _reason_ when discussing arson. Emma nudges her shoulder, and says, “Like the one I’ll take to visit you. And the one you’ll take to visit me.”

“We’re going to be so far away from each other,” Marian moans.

 Emma sighs sadly, “Sometimes friends drift apart.”

“Emma,” Marian warns.

She sighs a little louder, heaving her shoulders high and dropping them down to the ground, head hanging sadly between them. “Sometimes, things aren’t meant to be.”

“Emma,” Marian says, but she's laughing this time.

Emma looks up, and says, “Sometimes, the light’s turned green and you didn’t even notice so now it’s turning yellow, oh, and look, it’s turning red again.”

Marian glares at her.

So, Emma smiles and says, “Sometimes friends drift apart, or sometimes they end up stuck in a car together on Main Street.”

Marian doesn’t tell Emma to fuck off, but it’s a close thing, as close as their shoulders as Emma leans on her and says, “Don’t miss this light.”

“I won’t,” Marian grumbles.

(She does.)

(That time she actually tells Emma to fuck off.)

-

He’s late enough for school that cutting biology not only makes sense but is the only thing he can do, especially when he sees Victor disappearing around the corner towards the yearbook office. Especially when he’s so exhausted of reading already that the thought of even looking at a PowerPoint right now is enough to make him go into hiding.

His hand’s cramped, too, and Kathryn can fix a lot of things, but she can’t fix that. Legal documents require hand-written signatures on all 30,000 pages (exaggeration, of course) that this morning, Kathryn had been quietly confident (and Ratched had been gravely relieved) would go through in less than a month.

Killian’s head is swimming. He shakes it out and calls after Victor.

“Hey, mate, your yearbook’s awful.”

Victor looks over his shoulder, nods his head pointedly in the opposite direction towards Killian’s biology classroom. When Killian just shrugs and falls into step beside him, Victor follows his lead and says, “It isn’t.”

Killian stares. Silent judgement always works best on Victor.

“It’s a work in progress,” Victor exclaims.

Killian lifts an eyebrow.

“Fuck you, I know that it’s shit. Emma already told me.”

Victor rubs at his arm in some kind of memory. Killian almost feels bad; Emma’s punches hurt. But Victor definitely deserved it; he even smirks as he says, “Said I needed to sober up or she’ll throw the book at me. I’m not sure whether that’s a law reference or her threatening more violence. What do you think?”

“Probably a bit of both,” Killian says.

Victor nods and pushes open the yearbook office door. He takes a seat at the computer and Killian follows, slumping down beside him. Victor combs his hand through his hair, tossing a cheeky grin at Killian.

“Want to help? It’d give you more quality time with her,” Victor winks.

It isn’t hard for Killian to keep his mouth shut about just how much quality time he’s shared with Emma; Victor’s insinuations about that time are enough to make him never want to open his mouth again.

“I’m not here to clean up your messes,” Killian says.

He usually is _there_ though, at Victor's house, helping him gather empty beer cans and wine bottles and toss them in the trash, scrubbing the floors clean before Victor’s father returns for house inspection.

Victor eyes him suspiciously and curse Killian's kind heart, Victor actually _assumes_ at this point that he’s going to help him.

(Curse his _bleeding_ heart, he probably will.)

“I’m also busy. I have that college visit this weekend,” Killian says in protest of said heart.

“Poor you,” Victor says, rolling his eyes. “And I have the semi-weekly ‘What are you going to do with your life, Victor? Doctoring is a...noble endeavor, but the family legacy.’”

Killian cringes in sympathy, biting at his lip and sucking it between his teeth.

Kathryn has expectations for Killian’s future: at least seven college applications sent in and five acceptances sent back, at least a 3.5 GPA upon graduation, and a pre-college summer spent working nine to five with Leroy. Her expectations are easy enough to fulfill with enough work on his part, however.

And there are Kathryn’s expectations, and then there are the ones he has for himself.

Those have been just as easy to fulfill lately. He’s been writing every day for two weeks now, pushing himself even harder than he has before at practice, and maybe someday soon Ruby’s texts will stop surprising him so much.

But there _were_ expectations in the past, too: the promise he made to Liam, not to screw up and Killian failed in that. The one he made to his mother, to always stay by his brother’s side, “stay where it’s safe, Killian,” and there’s no safety to be found anymore; sorry, mum, he broke that promise too. The one he made to her to always be his better self, and well, he’s still getting there.

Killian can sympathize with falling short of expectations; he has a history of it after all.

With an effort, Killian smiles, and says, “Want to switch? I think I’ve decided on my school anyway.”

“MMU?”

“Yeah,” Killian confirms.

Victor drums his fingers on the table and insists, “You have to have a backup; first choice admission is no guarantee." He shakes his head and, like he’d even have been able to take Killian's spot anyway when his names on the ticket and they do check ID in this country, he says, “No, you go. The lecture from my father is mine to endure. I’ve become pretty adept at the ‘Yes, sir’ at all the appropriate moments.”

He turns quieter, seeking, pleading. “But yearbook. You’re going to help, right?”

Curse his bloody heart; he thinks of Emma first and foremost - he asked if she needed his help, never made a promise, not a one but still Killian sighs and says, “We’ll start with the cover. I meant to tell you that this is a yearbook and not your self-published erotic novel, mate.”

Victor snorts in approval. “Really? I was under the impression that _Storybrooke High Class of 2016_ would be the perfect title for one.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Victor leans closer, “Hey, Killian, want to make a home movie?”

Killian smirks, licks at his bottom lip and watches as Victor follows its path. He leans closer and says, “No doubt the production quality would be excellent, but would the shit sex be worth it?”

The door swings open, and Killian jerks around. He grins, his brain short-circuiting just for a second; this time when he licks at his lip it isn’t a deliberate tease at Victor and he doesn’t realize he’s doing it until she matches the motion.

Emma’s wearing a form-hugging red turtleneck but the neck doesn’t come up high enough to hide the pink bruise just beneath her ear, and with her hair in a ponytail today, it doesn’t seem like she meant to hide it anyway.

“Did I interrupt something?” she says, an eyebrow lifted teasingly.

“Yes! Killian was just denying me the chance to make some cash off of our sex tape. Tell your boyfriend to stop being so faithful.”

“He’s as bad as Walsh,” Emma comments.

Killian nods in agreement. “Are you going to sell me out this time, too?”

Emma acknowledges the question with a smile, and she crosses over to Killian and Victor's side. Killian reaches out his hand. She takes it while questioning, “Victor, have you asked them?”

“Asked who?” Killian says, rubbing at her cold hand to try to ease some warmth into it.

“I told Victor to ask Aurora and Ruby to help with the yearbook. They have some experience with it.”

“But -”

She cuts Victor off before he can even fully protest, and snaps, “I really don’t care if you pissed them off so much that they don’t want to work with you anymore. Apologize, grovel, or just send them a nice bottle of wine from your dad’s collection to drink when they turn 21. Just get it done.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me,” Victor says.

Emma’s fingers tighten on Killian’s hand but she merely smiles tightly and says, “Also, Ingrid’s going to be overseeing the project now. I asked her on your behalf. She’s super looking forward to working with you. On Saturdays from 1PM to 5PM. She’s cleared her schedule and everything.”

“You’re _heartless_ ,” Victor says.

“You’re welcome,” Emma replies.

Killian tugs on her warmed hand, turning her attention towards him while Victor grumbles in the background.

She frowns at Killian curiously. “Don’t you have bio right now?”

“I recall you referring to me as Captain Cuts Classes. Are you truly surprised that I opted not to go?”

He doesn’t look away, not truly trying to lie or deflect, but not really wanting her to _see_ the thoughts, the expectations he’s failed (how can you maintain a 3.5 GPA when you don’t even go to class) - but she reads him easily, her expression softening into understanding.

(And there, in her eyes, there’s the promise he made to Emma to trade his awful writing for her awful drawing; the promise that she can tell him anything and he’ll listen; the promise in his kisses, in his touches, in his looks, that he loves her...that he’ll love her…)

“Were you late?” she asks.

“I had some paperwork to go over with Kathryn, Ratched, and family services,” Killian explains.

Victor whistles. “Dude, your place is going to be so empty.”

It is.

He’s used to it.

Ratched’s presence won’t make the house emptier than it’s been for years. Or quieter. It’ll certainly smell less like a hospital in the living room however. Killian smiles at Emma, but she frowns, tightening her hold on his hand again. Maybe she sees something sad in that he’s looking forward to the emptiness. Perhaps he should see something sad in it, too. It is a house meant for four; Killian is only one.

He glances over at Victor.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice,” Killian says.

“Nice? It'll be perfect!”

Killian groans. “You’re not coming over, mate. I’ll not have my house getting as trashed as yours. I don’t have maids on speed dial.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Victor says confidently.

“You’ll never get him to leave,” Emma warns.

“Oh, I know.”

A door slams outside and Emma jolts turning towards the sounds filtering in, where the rest of the school is starting to spill into the hallway. Second period’s over.

“Test time,” Emma moans.

She flutters her lashes. It might not be intentional but it gets the intended effect. Killian wishes the door was closed so he could sneak a kiss.

It might help him a bit - the way his thoughts are beginning to race.

(It’s freeing, right? To have this house all to himself, to be able to fill it however he wants, with whomever he wants...it’s freeing, this future of his.)

“There’s a camera in here,” Victor reminds him as he tugs on Emma’s hand.

“I know,” Emma and Killian reply at the same time.

She laughs softly and disentangles their fingers.

“Good luck on your test,” Killian says.

Her double dimples flash happily. “Thanks.”

She turns to Victor and orders, “Ask them.”

Victor shrugs and turns away.

On her way out, Emma says, “We’ll talk later?”

Killian nods. That’s something easy. Something he can do.

(A promise he can keep.)

-

The week doesn’t go by in a blur; the week goes by in exhausting moments of homework, practices, tests; laughter filled ones of Belle toppling bookshelves, dinner with Tink and Astrid, and Emma kicking him underneath his seat; and the other, less important ones in between.

It’s not a blur, but it does go by fast enough that he doesn’t have a chance to prepare himself until he’s halfway through the campus tour.

Killian _likes_ Haven College.

The major and minor offerings? Varied. The classes? Interesting. The food? Fantastic. The campus? Beautiful. He can _see_ himself here.

He likes the school, and his heart sinks the more he discovers to like. He could do more than like it; he could fall in love with this school. He could fall in love, and he has never wanted to curse Dr. Hopper more than he does in this moment, not even the time he’d attempted to talk to Killian about coming to terms with leaving high school behind; Killian came to terms with things ending when his father left his family without a word, and he’s had enough practice with losing the things that actually matter that the inevitable end of his high school career couldn’t even make him blink except to stare at Hopper and hope the conversation was coming to a close.

But, considering a future here makes his chest tighten, a fist clenched around his lungs and squeezing, eager to cut his breath short. He could fall in love with this school, but -

He’s already in love.

And the thought of that ending just to give him a beginning here? The thought of that ending…

Killian gropes for the certainty he felt only days ago, but finds it just out of reach and his fingers grasp around emptiness instead, much like his soon to be empty house that he can fill with whatever he wants, whomever he wants...

Panic, he’s coming to realize, feels something like the moment he sits down for the interview at Admissions, something like the smiles that curve his lips as all the right things to say come readily, something like the moment the woman claps his hand and says, “We hope to see you here.”

Panic feels something like that part of him that nods his head and hopes, just as it hoped when Emma first flashed her dimples at him and said, “Hate is a strong word. Loathing is stronger, but I’m not sure either is appropriate for the way Ruby feels about you.”

He likes the school, and he hates himself for it.

Killian’s no stranger to that feeling, and it welcomes him back, old friends reunited once again.

It’s as he’s waiting in the terminal for his flight back to Portland that Emma’s text comes through. It’s selfish of him and unfair to her that he doesn’t want to look at it, and that’s the one thing he doesn’t ever want to be, so he opens the text.

And all he can do is match her smile in the picture, as she uses one hand to hold out her sweatshirt and the other to hold her phone. It gives him a clear shot of the text, _they’re taking the hobbits to isengard,_ imprinted on it in all black lettering.

“Someone's discovered memes,” he teases in his reply.

**2:32: someone’s discovered hot topic AND memes**

“I stand corrected,” he replies.

**2:33: don't you always**

They call for boarding just as he’s typing out a particularly long reply consisting of all the times that he has been right, which is probably for the best, but as he’s readying his bag and getting on the line, he finds himself pondering that statement. He’d thought he was waiting for something out of his control to go wrong, and here he is with all his own choices before him and this is what finally feels like the punch to the gut he was anticipating to drop him. Not Emma pulling away, not Ruby pushing him away, not his past indiscretions coming back to haunt him, but only himself.

He never gets a chance to reply to her text before they’re directed to turn off their phones, which is probably for the best.

Yeah, it’s for the best.

-

He hasn’t a nightmare for a month now, but he didn’t forget what it was like to wake up, knowing down to the marrow of his bones that he has nothing at all. Killian remembers that better than any dream. It was a reality he woke up to for so long that he’ll never be able to truly shake it, even when everything’s changed so much. Especially because his reality feels so much more like a dream, because outside of his absolute certainty in Emma, in them, is still that niggling doubt that he can’t have everything he’s hoped for, that it’s too good to be as real as her hand on his arm, pulling him back against her.

(The more he thinks about it, the more he loves that school, and trying not to think about it doesn’t help, trying to think of Emma instead only makes him think of it more.)

“Killian?”

He turns his head to look at her, twisting in her embrace to find her biting her lip, a frown in her brow, and just like that, his stomach drops. He nods his head, preparing for the worst, for the dream to shatter -

“Come to the back with me?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She nudges him forward and he leads them both into the backroom of Belle’s library. He steps into the center of the room because pressing himself against the wall would be too much like hiding, or rather too obviously hiding. It’s easier to hide in the light, easier with all eyes on you, easier with Emma’s eyes on him, searching his face before she turns back towards the door.

Emma turns the knob, mutters, “Don’t trust it,” and closes the door on its wedge, leaving it slightly cracked.

Killian waits for her to speak, to read him as well as she so often seems to, but that’s not what she has in mind, and it takes him more than by surprise when Emma pushes him back against the wall, hands on his jacket sleeves, pressing her nose into his chest before lifting her head upwards.

He kisses her, so relieved that it’s desire driving her and not the fears he’s sure are flashing in his eyes - so relieved that he takes more than he should in the kiss, leaves them both breathless in mere seconds. As he breaks to gather air, she says, “There aren’t any cameras in here and I thought - I’ve, maybe, always wanted to do this.”

“With me?” Killian asks.

“No, with Elsa. Don’t ask stupid questions,” she says.

“It’s not a stupid question with that answer,” Killian argues, but it falls on deaf ears, on soft, wet lips slanting over his. He closes his eyes as her hands begin to rove, tracking from his shoulders, down his chest, beneath his jacket and over the hint of skin at his collar. He follows her lead, overtakes her, even, when he slides his hands down beneath the loose waist of her jeans, fingers catching on the top of underwear.

“Jesus, Killian,” she mutters and then kisses him deeper, grinding against him, only encouraging him even more to push his hands down and cup her ass. He rocks against her, grateful for the wall behind him because he’s not sure he’d be able to properly stand on his own when she’s trying to fuse their bodies together through their clothes.

She’s probably wet. She could probably -

“Emma, are we just…?”

Doing this? More than this? More than that even?

Killian’s thoughts drift, and it’s good because he’s no longer clear headed enough to think of anything, anything at all except kissing her.

He _needs_ to kiss her.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to kiss you,” Emma says, echoing his thoughts.

“I think you wanted a little more than that,” he accuses.

“What would -” She pants, crushing him to the wall with the drive of her hips. “What would make you think that?”

“Emma, you’re practically humping me,” he says.

“Not _practically_ ,” she replies sarcastically.

He doesn’t know how she manages when his voice is going pitchy as his hands curve her ass and his fingers dip low enough that he catches wetness on the tips. She makes a tiny noise and says, “Can we do that thing again? Like at MMU?”

Killian freezes, and before the thought of MMU - of places that he likes, of places that he _loves_ \- can truly catch him and drag him away from this, he kisses her, trying to lose that thought in the desperate merging of their lips. It chases after him and he kisses her harder -

Emma draws back, says, “That’s a yes, I take it? Very much a yes.”

He moves his hands from her ass, turning them with difficulty until they’re on her hips. She stumbles backwards, enough to put the necessary space between them. He leaves one hand on her hip, and fumbles the other one over her mound, fingers slipping over her clit.

Emma uses both hands to push beneath his jeans, only pulls back the one to spit on her palm - “Gross,” she mutters, a little hiccup in the sound and Killian’s too focused on rubbing circles on her clit, in making her wet enough to curl his fingers inside her with ease, to reply in more than a gasp. Emma doesn’t seem to mind, leaning to rest her head against his chest while she takes him in both hands, gently jacking him within his jeans.

She gets frustrated quickly, as frustrated as he is with every stunted stroke of her hands, and relinquishes her grip so she can shove his jeans down to his thighs.

“Emma, you should’ve shut the door,” he says.

“Should’ve hung a sock on the handle, don’t come in, I’m getting off,” Emma says - to prove her point, she bucks her hips as he finally works his fingers inside her.

She laughs as she takes him up again. He’s hard enough now that her strokes are much easier, do so much more, sharp dashes of pleasure running up and down his spine and hitting him low, sharply, sharp enough to tear away every single thought except for this: Emma’s riding two of his fingers and he thinks she can take a third - so wet that when he presses against her entrance, she spreads easily, welcoming him.

“Oh, oh god,” she says.

“You’re doing so good for me, Emma, so good,” he whispers.

“Am I?” she says, just as quiet - tension drawing her body up, she’s so tight around him, must feel so full.

“You should see yourself, see how beautiful you look.”

He’s close, too, so close with her fist tight around him, tugging him faster - and hand jobs don’t usually do this to him, but Emma’s clenching around his fingers, face buried in his shoulder, and she’s trembling and _that_ does this to him, makes him drop all his weight to the wall so he doesn’t have to carry that too while he’s trying to carry her over the edge.

“Are you ready to come?” he asks her quietly.

She nods into his shoulder - which is good because the noises she’s making are loud even muffled. He draws his fingers out of her, her moan of loss covered by the hiss between his teeth as she drops him. Quickly, he presses his thumb to her clit, rubbing.

Emma whines as she comes, but it’s quiet enough - especially when there are voices echoing outside.

“Fuck,” she says.

He pulls away from her, frustration warring with fear, frustration winning out when he pulls her against him and uses the wetness still clinging to his fingers to stroke himself.

“Faster,” she breathes.

He nods and thank everything, it takes only three strokes for him to come around his fingers. But there’s where the next problem lies, when he’s coming down and his come is dripping over his fist.

Emma reaches into her pants pocket and pulls out a travel Kleenex set and he’d chuckle at her foresight, but he can pick out the voices now and there are heels clicking on the floor -

“You want which stack?” Ruby calls from outside the door.

Emma takes a deep breath and turns her back to him.

“At least it’s only Ruby?” she says.

“ _At least_.”

Killian goes for cleanliness instead of speed, because Ruby will know both ways and he’d rather suffer without that added discomfort.

Ruby pushes open the door just as he’s adjusting his pants and he can see her over Emma's shoulder and how she notes every little out of place hair on Emma's head, nods and says, “I don’t know if I’m proud or disgusted, but I do know that Marian would appreciate it if you came out here.”

“Yeah,” Emma says. “Is it school?”

Killian raises an eyebrow in confusion, but isn’t happy to find clarity in Ruby’s responded, “It’s school. Her mother wants her to visit another one just in case…”

“Oh.”

Emma reaches into her back pocket again and pulls out a little bottle of hand sanitizer - more foresight - and hands it over to Killian. He takes it wordlessly, squeezes a generous amount into his hands and then hers when she offers it. Ruby watches all the while, which would be unnerving if his mind wasn’t set on that “just in case…”

And he’d thought for that short sweet moment that he could forget.

He wants to kiss Emma again but she’s already moved on from the moment, while he wants to remain in it forever, where it’s safe. He doesn’t have to worry about her embrace, knows what it means when she smiles at him like she’s doing now, soft, assured, _happy -_ doesn’t have to second-guess her love for him the way he’s second guessing everything he’s hoped for, everything he wants.

“Come on. You can wash your hands for real. _I_ can wash my hands for real,” Emma says.

“I’m leaving. These are definitely details I didn’t need to know,” Ruby says.

A lie if he’s ever heard one. She must truly be worried about Marian if she’s pretending like she doesn’t want to know exactly how long it took for Emma to come.

“Don’t know why you stood here anyway while Killian was -”

Emma grins when he grunts - must think that he’s offended by her talking about him putting his cock away, and not like he’s trying to bite back the frustration, the wanting that he can’t control.

He wants to talk to her about this but the words are stuck in his throat.

They stay there as he slips away to the bathroom to wash his hands “for real,” and comes back to the library to find Belle, Marian, Emma, and Ruby seated at the table, trying to calm Marian down.

She looks like she’s having a panic attack; Killian knows the feeling.

Listening to Marian doesn’t help because she’s so worried about Carleton, repeating, “I don't have a second choice,” she says, “I don’t want to go anywhere but there.”

Ruby snorts. “So where will you go? Just live outside the school until they let you in?”

“That does have its advantages,” Emma says. “You’ll learn to survive in the wild.”

“Minnesota is not the wild,” Marian says.

She smiles though, calmed, better than she was only moments before and Killian’s still at his worst (always; where’s that progress he made? It all feels like it’s slipping away) and can only bite his tongue when he thinks about second choices.

First choice admission is no guarantee, truly.

And admission, confession, _confession_ : Killian wanted choices - wanted freedom, and it’s freeing isn’t it? To have this option laid before him. It’s freeing right to have his first choice (Haven College, admission not guaranteed) and his second...it’s so freeing to have these choices laid before him, to have Emma say, “You can apply to MMU with me, Killian and Tink. If the worst happens at least you’ll be with us.”

To have Marian reply, “That situation _would_ be the worst happening.”

So freeing for the worst happening to be the tearing in his chest as Emma smiles, and says, “We’ll be fine without you anyway.”

They’ll be fine.

Killian wants to tell her. Needs to tell her but, confession, confession, _admission_ : not guaranteed.

-

Practice winds down early so it isn’t too dark for Killian to beg off catching that ride home with Philip and to opt to walk home instead. It isn’t that he doesn’t like Phillip, but he’s decidedly boring, and Killian would rather be alone with his own thoughts than pretend to want to hear his.

Harsh, but -

He’s an asshole, sometimes, forgive him.

An asshole all the times if he’s thinking about it and he’s been thinking about it a lot lately. Can’t stop bloody thinking about it, can’t do anything but dream about it.

(Emma never saw him as that, the one person who never looked at him and thought he was the absolute worst, and -)

Killian’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve:

Doesn’t deserve to find Emma leaving out the front door of the school at the same time that he reaches it, stalking towards her car with determined footsteps.

_She_ doesn’t deserve this: for him to run after her. Yet, Killian speeds up his steps to catch up to her anyway.

He comes up behind her as she’s drawing up to the door of her car, so he isn’t surprised when he has to take a quick step back to avoid her swinging hands. If he hadn’t stopped when he did, she would’ve nailed him right in the nose. His nose thanks him, and he rubs at it in sympathy of the assaulted air.

“Killian, what the hell?” Emma demands.

She places her hands on her hips, keys jingling in her hand, and glares at him.

Sheepishly, he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to surprise you. What are you doing here so late?”

She shakes her head but he’s forgiven (for this, probably won’t be forgiven for that, wouldn’t expect her to, doesn’t expect her to - and there are those expectations again, Emma expecting him to love her and she’s - she’s not his second choice, dammit.)

(But MMU is, and that’s where she wants to be.)

(With him.)

He barely hears her respond, “Helping Ingrid wrangle Victor. She didn’t really need my help, it is Ingrid, you know. But I like to watch him squirm.”

Killian smiles somehow and says, “That’s a noble exercise. What are you doing now?”

It’s a desperate invitation, and Emma lifts an eyebrow, but her voice is shy when she says, “Depends on what you’re doing.”

“We can have dinner at my house,” he suggests, grateful for her willingness to join him. “We can celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” she asks.

He swallows, and says, “By Thanksgiving, Ratched will be gone.”

By Thanksgiving, he’ll be free.

“By Thanksgiving? What are you doing without her then?”

He frowns, and says, appalled, “Do you think I spend Thanksgiving with Ratched?”

“Well, no, I just -” Emma frowns, too. “How _do_ you spend Thanksgiving?”

“With Victor’s dad staring me down and trying to mentally will me into making Victor join the military instead.”

She giggles. “I see. Sounds like fun.”

“Not so much, but I wouldn’t leave him to it. I actually like him,” Killian explains.

“You’re a good friend,” Emma says, and tugs open her car door, waving so he does the same.

Inside her car is colder than outside, so they sit a moment as they wait for it to heat up. It’s too silent. His thoughts are too loud against the hum of the engine. He fidgets with the denim of his jeans.

“Did you do the French homework?”

He perks at Emma’s question and replies, “No, I’m waiting until the last moment to do it. She’s going to be so disappointed to see another essay about myself that just lists my favorite color and movies.”

“If we work together, maybe we can list our favorite sexual position,” Emma says.

He stares at her blankly, and she flushes after a moment, “That was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.”

“Sorry, Emma, it’s just that, I don’t know, what exactly is your favorite sexual position? For future reference.”

She turns redder and places her hands on the wheel so she can pull the car out of the space and start down on the road.

“Seatbelt. It’s bad enough that my dad thinks you’re a forty year old man that I plan to run away with. It’ll be worse if he sees that you’re just my classmate who doesn’t know how to put a damn seatbelt on.”

“Safety first,” Killian says.

“He’s very serious about safety.” Killian nods, but not emphatically enough because Emma goes on, “No, seriously, I was in a booster seat until I was almost 13 because I wasn’t the proper weight or height and my dad wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to die even though he never drives above the speed limit while I’m in the car.”

Killian chuckles, but his throat starts closing up around the sound when he thinks about her dad - the sheriff cared enough to put her in a booster seat well past the point of embarrassment, what would he think if he knew what Killian was thinking? Killian feels like a worse risk to her safety than driving 100 in a 20 zone.

“Hey, do you want to come back to my place instead?”

Jolted, Killian says, “What?”

“I just think that since you haven’t been to my house yet…” Emma wanders off.

He wants to say yes.

It's all he wants to say, but he imagines her dad looking at him, her forty year old lover, her classmate who doesn’t know how to put on a seatbelt, the boy that loves his daughter but plans to…

(It’s not a plan; she’s not a second choice, bloody hell.)

Instead he answers, “Another time, Emma?”

She nods, so he keeps speaking, “It’s just I don't want you to have to drive out of you way so late.”

And keeps speaking, “I’m not sure your parents would want me there unannounced anyway.”

And keeps speaking.

(Avoiding, deflecting, _lying_.)

“I need preparation to talk with the Principal and the Sheriff after hours.”

“Right. I get it, Killian,” Emma says.

But she sounds confused.

Hurt, even.

Killian stares out the window and says, “We also have that French test coming up if you want to study for it.”

Emma takes a moment to respond, a beat long enough to have him turning his head to check on her.

“My place then? Next Saturday? That’s enough time, right?”

He nods, relieved that he’s able to manage that motion. “Yeah, it is.”

“Good,” she says and smiles.

He glances back out the window. They’re pulling onto his street and Killian sighs.

“You sound tired,” Emma says.

“I am,” he says. “Practice,” he clarifies.

He can feel her eyes on him, searching out the truth, or perhaps, that’s his guilty conscience speaking loud enough for her to hear. When he turns back she’s looking at his driveway as she pulls into it. Her phone vibrates as she parks, and Killian glances at the screen, sees ‘Mom’ flashing across it.

“It’s your mother,” he says.

She curses, and turns to him in apology. “I actually have to go home. I forgot I’m supposed to have dinner with my mom and another principal from this school in New York. Oh god, I’m going to have to tell her all I know.”

“All you know about...?”

Emma lifts her eyebrow significantly.

“Oh.” He nods his head and half-shrugs, “Well, I don’t know a thing. Can’t help you there.”

“Thanks. _Thanks_. Well, this is good actually. Work on that lie for next week.”

“Jesus, Emma. Now that’s all I’ll be thinking about.”

“Not when my dad’s smiling down at you, you won’t,” she protests.

The laughter curls up in his throat and sinks uneasily down. No, with her dad smiling at him, he’ll think about this instead: how he loves her double dimples, loves the one in her chin, the freckles on her neck and the flower drawn on the inside of her left wrist. About the promises he makes when he says, “We’ll see, won’t we?”

(He needs to tell her.)

(He doesn’t say a thing.)

-

He doesn’t call. Doesn’t send out a text. He doesn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t tell her.

Killian doesn’t tell _anyone_ of his injury; Emma has to hear of it via a yearbook committee group text from Aurora. Perhaps she should be upset because, of course, it’s his pride keeping him from telling her.

But it’s not “of course.” It would be so much easier if she could say that it was his pride that stopped him from calling her but...

He was supposed to come over to her house today. They made plans.

(It isn’t a promise broken, she tells herself, but she’s told herself a lot of things before: that she’s magic being one of them, and she knows _that_ isn’t true, that Mary Margaret and David didn't adopt her because she wished on a star, but because they loved her; they love her.)

(Killian _loves_ her.)

She’s up and ready to go at around seven in the morning (early for cancelled plans; the irony isn’t lost on her), but she waits until noon before she shows up at his door and rings the bell. Ratched’s car isn’t in the driveway, so it’s Killian she can hear hobbling down the stairs, one heavy step at a time.

When he opens the door, somehow she fixes a bright smile on her face while she holds out the greasy bag of Mama’s burgers in front of her.

“Brought you food! Aurora told me about your sprain. I would’ve texted you but I wanted to surprise you, and -”

She breathes as Killian’s expression brightens. The bruise on his jaw is purple and his lip is split at the side, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling at her so warmly that the cold feeling in her stomach starts to melt away.

Maybe she’s imagining the worst.

Maybe – but he didn’t call.

“Come in, love,” he says, stepping aside to let her in. Emma pokes at his chest as she passes him, but instead of moving up the stairs, she waits for him to go before her.

She watches him grit his teeth and try to pretend it doesn’t hurt (his pride can’t be more bruised than his body, and if his body doesn’t stop him from coming to the door than his pride shouldn’t have stopped him from making one simple call.)

(Pride isn’t the only thing that can stop someone from making a call; but it isn’t the _same_ as that call she waited on for months. It could never be the same.)

(It hurts more.)

“How bad is the leg?” she asks.

“Bruised from hip to knee,” Killian confesses.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Emma doesn’t offer him a hand getting up the stairs which he must be grateful for because his jaw relaxes its twitching. Still, she does linger behind Killian just in case.

If the situation had been reversed, he would have been at her side within a second. If the situation had been reversed - if the situation hadn’t been his tight smiles all week, his desperate kisses in the backroom, his gaze heavy on the table while they all chatted except him -

She would have been at his side, too.

“Sorry to be holding you up,” he says as they ascend to the top level. Killian limps the rest of the way to his room, drags himself across his bedroom to collapse on his bed.

She spends a moment moving his papers out of the way on his desk before she drops the greasy bag onto it, making sure to slide some tissues underneath to try to soak up some of the grease. His desk is old, worn, _loved_. She doesn’t want to ruin it.

She looks down at the desk drawer again. Up close she can see that the letter carved into it actually is a capitalized R followed by a lowercase o.

“Are you going to make room for me?” she asks, not exactly teasing.

He’s always insisting she join him on his bed.

He lifts his hand from over his head and glances at her. “I’d love to cuddle right now, but I can’t even...”

He trails off as she shirks her jacket, his eyes immediately going to the V of her shirt. It’s enough to make her smile, the groan of frustration as he tears his eyes away.

“Do you realize how much of a struggle it is to have your dominant hand in a wrist wrap, unable to bend it at all?” he asks.

Emma did break her arm in the second grade attempting to swing high enough to flip all the way over the swing set bar. She knows something about suffering, but she doesn’t mention it, instead listing, “I know, you can’t hold a pen, can’t brush your teeth -”

He disagrees with a shake of his head and says, “I can brush my teeth just fine.”

His eyes dip back to her chest as she leans down to place her jacket on the back of his chair. He groans again, and Emma straightens and says, “Can’t deal with that.”

He can’t do much to hide the tent in his sweatpants so he just groans again, closing his eyes, “No, I can’t.”

“I know the feeling,” she says.

There’s the ache in her chest and then there’s the one in her belly, the cramping that even Midol can't subside. She can’t do much of anything like this. Even if she wanted to.

“Do you?” he asks.

“I - uh. Period,” she replies.

“Oh.”

Emma just sighs, “Yeah.”

“You can’t just do it with your clothes on?” he asks curiously.

“I can but it’s not the same.”

It would be so easy to let the conversation keep its course, to have the back and forth teasing, innuendo laced banter. So easy to talk about the physical instead of this –

“We’re supposed to be studying French.”

“We are?” he asks.

But he doesn’t sound surprised the way he should, and that ache in her chest? It’s starting to feel like a hole.

“It’s Saturday,” she says.

“I was supposed to go over to your place, I completely -”

She really doesn’t want to hear it from him, so she says it herself, “Forgot. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She watches as he pulls into himself and feels her chest pulling tighter with it. It isn’t that the past two weeks haven’t been good, but Killian’s been different. Quieter. Throwing her secret glances that she’d pretended not to notice, so many that she could feel his gaze eating away at her. Boring holes into her but not the ones that make her feel seen, but ones that seem to see something beyond her.

Something that he can’t seem to share.

“Is our honeymoon over?” Emma asks - not a blurted question, but words carefully considered, words that she spent running over in her head for hours this morning as she thought wistfully of “young love, so sweet.”

He stares at her for a beat - stares and says, “What?”

She doesn’t look at him as she explains, “Marian mentioned that we were going through our honeymoon phase, and I told her that if we were, I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want it to be just a phase. I didn’t and I still don’t. But I feel like that’s been taken out of my hands and that you’ve ended it while I don't even know why.” She looks back at him. “I want to know why, Killian.”

He frowns, bites at the bruised and split corner of his lip, apparently the pain of that easier to bear than whatever he doesn’t seem to want to tell her.

She almost wishes she didn’t say anything. She _wishes_ that she didn’t have to say anything at all.

“Should I be preparing myself for a gentle let down?” she jokes, tries to, chokes on the words as his eyes flicker away. She’s used to being the one wanting to run, but it’s worse to see the expression on him than it is to feel it. He looks trapped by her, caught in his own home with nowhere to run.

“I don’t want to let you down, Emma,” he says - _pleads_ with her.

“But, you will anyway?” she gathers.

He gathers himself, too, sitting up fully on the bed. He holds his bandaged wrist to his chest, winces as shifts on the bed, but it’s secondary to the flickering of his gaze across his face, the soft hurt in his voice when he says, “I don’t want to go to MMU. Not as much as I did before.”

It doesn’t click for a moment - just questions of ‘What? Why?’ popping up over and over - and then she realizes. He doesn’t want to go to MMU. He doesn’t want to go to school with her.

_Not as much as I did before_.

It hurts, distantly, hurts like rocks falling into a path, blocking the way, no way forward, only the road back.

It hurts.

He goes on, slowly, “I thought it would be my first choice, but Haven - when I visited Haven I really loved it there, Emma. I really loved it.”

“You really loved me, too,” she says, doesn’t mean to let the words slip, but the way he says it – “I really loved it,” like he isn’t just talking about the school, like he’s talking about her as well, like suddenly they’re past tense when they’ve only just become the present.

God, it _hurts_.

“No. Bloody hell, no, Emma. I love you,” he says fiercely.

Truthfully.

She wants to trust it, wants to trust herself and her feelings - trust him - but it just feels that touch hollow when he could have easily said weeks ago that he liked Haven, that he might want to go there. It wouldn’t have felt like this if he said it then. It wouldn’t have felt like some deep dark secret, worthy of tearing them apart if he didn’t make it so.

She stands stock-still as he struggles off the bed and walks over to her. There’s that same fierceness in his eyes as there was in his words and a desperation to his touch when he reaches out both hands, his good one and his sprained one to touch her. His fingers curve around her wrist, rubbing at the inside of it, where she’s drawn that little flower.

She was thinking of getting a tattoo, of asking for his opinion. _Rose or buttercup?_ _What do you think? Are you a Westley in the making? I could be your Buttercup, if you want. I have the hair for it. And Ruby definitely has the dress. You’d look good as a pirate._

_We’d look good together. Be **good** together._

(She wonders if he’s seen the Princess Bride; she still hasn’t see Return of the King, was waiting for him to watch it with.)

“I love you,” he says like a plea for understanding.

She understands more than she wants to.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says.

“Well, then don't,” she says.

She’s being unfair. She _knows_ that she’s being unfair. Because this is his future and if he doesn’t want to share it with her at MMU...it’s his future, and she should be happy that he has one that he’s looking forward to. She shouldn’t want to curl up into a ball and cry. Not with him.

(He’s not Neal; at least he tells you he's going to leave you to your face.)

(He’s not Neal; he isn't.)

“Please,” she says.

She looks away for a second, but he tugs on her wrist, drawing her gaze back to his face. He searches her eyes, sags a little, shoulders dropping their tension.

“Tell me what to do,” he says softly.

“It’s not up to me,” she says.

He shakes his head furiously, corrects her, “Yes it is. You’re my first choice, Emma. You have to know that. And if you want me to go with you, I’ll do my best to make it so.”

“But if I want you to be happy where you’re at...” She pauses. “I want you to be happy.”

(Unfair is an understatement; unfair is _unfair_ to describe what she’s doing.)

“But I’m really selfish, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t go there,” she begs.

He sags some more and says, “Okay. Just...maybe, can you do something for me, Emma?”

She nods.

“Can you visit it at least? You don’t have to like it...but if you do?”

“I can do that,” she says. Remembering her father’s words, she says, “My dad said you should go for second visits. Just to be sure.”

“We can go together, then?” he asks, hopeful.

She likes when he sounds hopeful – it’s like he’s looking for a way through that blocked path. Maybe where the rocks are shallower, where they can climb over with each other’s help.

She likes the thought of them doing it together. Although, MMU, together there, it feels tainted, like her greedy selfish fingers have left their mark.

“Yeah. That sounds good to me,” she says. But she adds, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says fiercely.

Truthfully.

But just because he believes it doesn’t make it the truth - she wants to believe it, but the funny thing about the truth is that it’s _still_ the truth whether you deny it or not. And Emma knows this to be true: she should be sorry.

Yet, she just wants to sink against him, wants to press her face into his chest and say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you for choosing me.”

Either he senses this, or he needs the same thing because he steps in closer and holds her against him, and says, “You know that honeymoon phase...it doesn’t have to end if that’s what you want.”

“Is it what you want?” she asks.

“I want –“

She lifts her head to look at him.

“I want to kiss you but I think I might’ve bitten through my lip again,” he says.

She’s so grateful for the joke that she even laughs while she says, “No blood swapping.”

“Right,” he says sounding so forlorn and disappointed and the ache in her chest doesn't exactly ease, but it gentles at the sound, at the way he looks down at her, eyes on her lips.

“But maybe just this once,” she says and leans up.

When he kisses her it tastes -

_Relief. Hopefulness. Eagerness. Wanting._

When he kisses her, it tastes bittersweet.

But when she pulls back, he says, “None of that,” and he lifts her wrist between them. He looks at it, studying the flower drawn there, and says, “My mother loved buttercups.”

“Do you?” Emma asks.

“I do.”

He leans forward, smiling softer and says, “You have to know, Emma, I’m happy where I’m at. I’m happy with you.”

When he kisses her again, it tastes –

Well, all it tastes is _sweet._


	15. i don't know what i want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, friends, the final chapter! I still have a very small epilogue and a few requested outtakes to do, but WICGST as it is, is complete. But as today is the official start date of the [Captain Swan Big Bang](http://captainswanbigbang.tumblr.com), I wanted to celebrate by announcing that there _will_ be a sequel, which I will be writing for the big bang (so don't expect it until August; I hope this chapter, the epilogue, and outtakes will suffice for the long waiting time.) I want to thank each and every person who's made writing this fic just so much fun. Your kudos, comments, reblogs, all of them have made this effort worth it. I seriously could not have completed it without your encouragement. Seriously. This is the longest thing I've ever completed, I sincerely did not think I could do it, so I'm ecstatic right now. Rambling done, please enjoy this chapter.

Kisses aren’t supposed to lead here, not right now when neither of them can do anything about it.

And yet they’re not supposed to be here either, he reminds himself, because they’re supposed to be studying at Emma’s house. Maybe they’d actually have gotten a decent amount of that in, had a real lunch, not Mama’s burgers, maybe he could’ve stayed for dinner.

They’re not supposed to be here, and yet he just wants to stay _here_ forever.

He’s a right asshole, kissing Emma like this when he just nearly made her cry. He’s a right asshole who’s drawing as close to her as he can when he still has that little bit of awareness to remember that if he grabs her the way he wants to, he’ll be out in seconds, the pain too much to handle.

Kisses aren’t supposed to lead here, not when they can’t do anything about it, but she’s pressing into him just as much as he’s pressing into her.

“You’re thinking too much,” Emma says, licking at his bottom lip.

Killian clicks his teeth together at how she pulled back just to say that, glaring down at her, and says, “Would you rather I not think at all? I’m not just a pretty face, love.”

She snorts particularly loudly and right in his face.

“Definitely not pretty,” she insists.

He steps back a bit, frowning, “Honestly, a man could get hurt from your words.”

“Are you hurt?”

She flutters her lashes prettily (and intentionally, most definitely with _intent_.) How she can do that right now is beyond him. How she can forgive him so easily…

(She’s going to visit the school with him. For him.)

(Wants to go _with_ him.)

Emma is a wonder.

She steps towards him, heat held between their bodies and making her cheeks pink, her eyes a darker shade of green than usual - the light shining on her even warmer than usual. “Are you hurting, Killian?” she says, fingers questing across his chest.

He shuffles backwards slowly, the predatory look in her eyes something to be explored, allowing it to flourish with each step. It’s not that smooth of a dance when he’s trying not to place as much weight on his leg as possible, but Emma more than makes up for his awkward movements.

“Do you want me to make it better?”

She stares at him and ever so slowly, she tilts her head to the side, mimicking the path of her eyes as she slides her gaze down. He hits the back of the bed, and it hurts his leg, but she’s so focused on him that he finds his focus on that instead, on the _hurting_ of his erection against the band of his sweatpants.

“What balm did you have in mind?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says like she already knows.

And she does seem to, placing her hands on his knees to push him down - gently, mindful of his injury - and bending on hers. He really wasn’t expecting anything like this, but she says, “You’re lucky your floor is carpeted,” and he fists his working hand in his sheets.

“Emma, you don’t have to -”

She clicks her teeth in annoyance, and says, “Does it ever occur to you that I _want_ to?”

“It occurs to me, but then I toss aside the thought because Emma Swan wanting me? Impossible,” he admits with a shrug.

She looks up at him, shaking her head the tiniest amount.

“You’re ridiculously annoying, do you know that?” Emma asks.

“It occurs to me,” he replies cheekily.

“Pants,” she says.

And suddenly, it’s real, it’s happening, her hands are tugging at his sweatpants and he’s pushing himself closer to the edge of the bed, making it easier for her to - her hand palms him through his boxers before she makes a whistling noise, pulling at those as well, and his cock hangs heavy and hard between his legs and she’s looking up at him, desire in her eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” she murmurs.

“Condom?” is all that he can get out at that.

Emma shakes her head, trailing her finger over the veins leading down his length. It’s not even a touch, but she could just be staring at him and he’d be a mess -

She was just staring at him, coincidentally, and he’s hard enough that he’s stepped right over the edge of a manageable erection to one that needs attention.

“Are you sure - oh.”

 _Attention_ that she gives.

Emma dips her head, doesn’t bother with using her hands to touch him, just presses her cheek against his length. His cock twitches at just that touch, and she sighs out before dipping her head more and licking at him, circling the crown of his cock before oh so gently pressing her tongue to the slit.

She moans softly and he’s lost in the sound.

Adrift when she says, “You taste good.”

He wants to joke, “Not as good as you,” “You taste better,” something along those lines, but chokes on all his words as he watches her, as Emma flicks her tongue against him before she finally grasps him in her hand and closes her lips around him.

Killian shifts just slightly at the same time that she takes more of him into her mouth, whimpering when she starts to suck, bobbing her head back and forth along his cock.

She doesn’t take too much into her mouth and he’s grateful for that, not sure that he’d be able to take it if she did more than she’s doing right now, exploring him, watching him with eyes blown wide and -

Emma shifts on her knees, letting his cock slip free of her mouth with a wet pop. He moans at the loss, and she laughs softly, her voice rough when she says, “Give me a second.”

She releases him from her grasp, adjusting her position on the floor. She glances up at him, eyes trailing towards the dark bruises on his upper thigh.

“God, you look awful,” she says.

“Emma,” he moans. He pouts. “I feel awful.”

“No, you don’t - well, you won’t - well -”

She cuts herself off and he notices as her hand slides between her legs, doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she takes him back into her mouth again, sucking firmly and allowing him to slide deeper with every thrust that he can’t help. Emma hums around his cock, something like a moan, like she’s really enjoying this, like -

Her hand is working between her legs, like he was right, she could ease her frustration if she wanted - doesn’t know if what she’s feeling right now is anything like what he’s feeling, if it’s as good as her warm, wet mouth drawing him in deeper, the tip of his cock almost pressing against her throat, the pressure building.

“You look so good like this, so good with your lips wrapped around me - you feel so good,” he moans.

She slips off of him, gasping, and places kisses along his length, licking up it, making him twitch with impatient longing. “Do I?” she asks, her voice shaky like she wasn’t sure.

“Emma, love, _please_ ,” because that’s the best way to show her, the only way, begging her because he’s so needy.

She gets it, sealing her lips over his cock again, stroking him into her mouth, against her throat.

She gags a little and he tries to draw back, doesn’t want her to choke, but she doesn’t let him go, just keeps sucking and swallowing and -

She gags again, but the third time, when she swallows, he slips into her throat, just the head of him, but it’s enough - it’s too much even. Killian’s terrified he’ll come right then and there, murmuring, “Please, Emma, I can’t I’m going to come.”

She jerks back, breathing, _gasping_ , a huge lungful of air, and before he can say more, she starts stroking him, his cock wet enough that it’s easy and hard at the same time, so hard that he can feel it -

“Gods, Emma, so good, so bloody good,” he says hotly, pumping his hips into her fist, trying not to come just yet, wanting this feeling to last just a little longer.

But it can’t, not when she eases her strokes, returns her hand to the base, so she can seal her lips around him again.

“Emma, I’m going to come, I’m really - I’m -”

He doesn’t - it’s beyond unexpected when she keeps sucking, pulling him over the edge, swallowing him down, her throat working over each spasm. It’s beyond unexpected to feel her moan as she does so, to suck him through his orgasm, easing him down to release him from her mouth and lick him clean, tongue laving over the too-sensitive head.

“Emma, you’re brilliant,” he says.

She chuckles, her voice just a bit hoarse when she says, “I give good head, that’s good to know.”

“Do you want me to…”

She blanches at the question. “Oh, no, _no_.” He can’t help the jolt of heat as she licks at the corner of her mouth, cleaning the cum from her lips. She shrugs her shoulders and he focuses in on that instead, as she says, “I don’t really like to. I mean, it’s nice but then sometimes it just makes things worse.”

She frowns. “I need like water or something? Where do you keep your water bottles?”

He sits up, trying to fumble his boxers and sweatpants up over his hips, and says, “I have a few cold ones in the fridge. Let me get that for you, I can -”

Placing a hand over his good leg, she finishes,” Sit here while I get it. Also, I’m going to steal your toothbrush and brush my teeth, and then we can study.”

“Must we?” he groans.

But she’s already leaving his room, leaving him to fumble again for the box of Kleenex under his bed with his one good hand and readjust his clothes, recover his thoughts from the orgasmic high - remember that he still has the MMU and Haven supplements to do and that -

He really wishes he could go down on her right now. Watching her cheeks flush, being able to tell her how gorgeous she is, those are worthy things to think about and not how badly he wants her to love Haven, too.

How he can still have these thoughts after -

He clenches his hand unthinkingly, wincing at the instant pain, but it’s enough to draw him away from the self-loathing and refocus him.

So, he’s ready as she walks back into his room, smiling at him softly as she says, “Shall we make the attempt? To not fail this test, I mean?”

He attempts a smile, and somehow despite the pain and the fact that he’s a certified asshole, he manages it, a real one. It helps that Emma’s wandered over to his desk and is frowning at the French textbook like it’s the most offensive thing in the world, helps that when she looks at him, that look fades.

He glances at the French textbook and asks, “Want to watch a movie instead? Return of the King?”

She drops the textbook to his desk, her smile so bright that he’s a bit dazzled.

“I’ll set it up,” she volunteers - but first, she walks over to him and drops down on the bed beside him, and as he turns his head to her, she moves, placing a kiss on his cheek. He nudges his nose at her until she kisses him for real, and it is a few long moments later before she pulls away and says, “I was just waiting for you to ask.”

This time, when he smiles, it’s easy - and it helps that when she reaches up to brush her fingers over the pointed tips of his ears, she says, “I think I’d be good at Sindarin. Better that than French.”

“Sindarin is the Elvish language they speak in this age - wait, Emma, did you read the books?”

Her answer, when she gives it, after pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle the response, is just as dazzling as her smile, leaves him gasping for air as he laughs.

“I may be partway through the Two Towers.”

“ _Emma_.”

(He’s an asshole, certified, but Emma doesn’t seem to mind.)

(The tips of her ears turn red when she’s embarrassed, too.)

-

Emma draws her fingers through the spilled sugar on the table as she waits. Her coffee is going cold, but she doesn’t really need it as much as she thought she might at this point. After working all night, she just has one supplement to go, Ingrid and Hopper already added their teacher recommendations, so all she has left to worry about is that.

The visit to Haven.

And also why in the world _Elsa_ , of all people, is late.

Maybe she had second thoughts about being caught at Mama’s instead of a regular breakfast at Granny’s. Or - Emma hears the bell ringing in the background - maybe she’s stumbling in now, a smile on her face and an apology on her lips.

“I’m so sorry, Emma, Anna heard I was going here and she wanted the waffles, and she cried when I said I would be too long to bring them to her before her and Kristoff went ice skating.”

Emma perks up as Elsa carefully slides into the booth. “Ice skating already?”

Elsa eyes the sugar on the table and explains, “There’s a rink they go to in Portland. Kristoff discovered it. It’s really quite nice.”

“I’m sure. There are some really cool places in Portland. Killian took me to a laser tag place and…” Emma trails off and stares at Elsa. “Did Ruby tell you that she thought we were dating?”

Elsa shakes her head. “No, she did not,” she replies and with a smile adds, “But Anna thought the same thing.”

Emma sighs softly. “‘If only’ is what I’m sure they’re both saying.”

“Oh, yes. It’d be much easier on Anna if she could have her dream wedding. She says Merida's red hair throws off the aesthetic. Too many curls for the crowns she advised us to wear,” Elsa says.

“Oh, really?”

Elsa smiles, and Emma waits for her to go on. She obviously wants to tell Emma about Merida. It’s playing on her lips, the soft smile that Emma can feel all the time.

( _All_ the damn time.)

(Mostly.)

“I met Merida online,” Elsa admits.

“OKCupid or Tinder?”

Elsa lifts an eyebrow, appalled. “Neither. I’m not even -” She pouts prettily, a light blush filling her pale cheeks. “I met her on Pinterest. She pinned some of my pictures of my study abroad.”

Elsa’s expression dips. She winces and says, “That sounds just as bad, doesn’t it?”

“Hans, Elsa, remember him?”

“Anna refuses to eat catfish to this day. I don’t blame her, it’s never cooked right.” Elsa crosses her fingers together and says, “Despite what I’m implying, I made sure she was real and not some scoundrel trying to run off with my inheritance.” Elsa winces again, but there’s a smile in there as well when she says, “She was very real. _Is_ very real.”

“You like her,” Emma teases.

“I’ve never met her,” Elsa replies, woe in her voice. “Perhaps, I can only say that I like her at this point. We’ll have to see if I’m even accepted…” She shakes the last of her words away, placing a smile on her face. “I am trying to be optimistic for once.” Pausing once again, she blushes as she says, “Merida says I look my best when I’m not worrying about everything. Do you know that I said the very same to her?”

“Sounds like a match made on Pinterest.”

Elsa must be taking Merida’s words to heart because she doesn’t even pause to consider her actions before she swats Emma on the arm, and says, “So Killian.”

“So. No. When can I skype Merida?” Emma asks.

“Anna already did the interrogation, so you don’t have to,” Elsa says. “I’m due to talk to her tomorrow if you would like to join us for dinner. Unless you already have plans.” Elsa lifts an eyebrow, actually teasing when she says, “ _So_ , Killian.”

“So, cupcakes, we should bake them?” Emma replies.

“Is something wrong?” Elsa queries, searching Emma’s face, a furrow etched in her brow.

“No, nothing, it’s just.”

The thing about spilling all her secrets to Ruby is that she’d always want to be there to fight Emma’s battles for her, which is appreciated, truly, but it’s not what she needs all the time. The thing about spilling it to Elsa is that she’s so used to fighting her own battles that she knows when Emma needs to do it for herself.

So by the time Emma’s done telling her about Killian, MMU, Haven and how he rubbed her back through Return of the King and it did wonders for her cramps (that last part unasked for, unnecessary, and Elsa doesn’t even make a face at it) Elsa just takes Emma’s hand and says, “I’m glad that the two of you talked this over. It seems that you already know what to do. Visit Haven, keep an open mind and you’ll figure it out.”

“I thought so,” Emma says.

“I know,” Elsa says. “But it does feel good to have a second opinion. On a related note, can you listen to this speech for me?”

Emma smiles. “Ready to run for president already?”

“Not quite, Emma, I still have a long way to go,” Elsa says seriously.

But there it is, the flash of a smile and the bright laugh, Elsa taking her own advice to heart. She does look her best when she isn’t worrying.

Glowing, in fact.

(Ruby’s apt descriptors strike again.)

-

Waking up to snow on Thanksgiving is a wonder that Killian hasn’t seen, not since his first year in Storybrooke, when the day didn’t actually mean anything to him other than an excuse not to have school, before Victor took pity on “poor lonely Killian,” and dragged him along to his house so he, _Victor_ , wouldn’t have to spend his Thanksgiving avoiding his father’s gaze and the empty seats at their overlarge table.

It’s too early for snow, but the weather doesn’t care to listen, the wind whipping flakes against his window. He touches the glass, feels the cold trying to make its way through and then dives for his phone.

He’s too slow. Already there’s a text flashing across his screen, and _Lady Emma Swan...typing_ rolls back and forth along the top when he opens the chat.

**9:13: it’s snowing!!!!**

**9:13: can I come over?**

Her next text comes through before he can even respond. He smiles at the screen, her question no longer a question but an announcement. She’s coming over.

Killian quickly goes through the motions of getting ready, but he’s too slow yet again. As he’s throwing on his shirt, he looks out the window to see her car already parked in front of his house, and Emma…

Emma seated on the hood, booted heels kicking at the front and arms reaching towards the flurries in the sky, laughing as she catches snow on her bare hands. Snow is a wonder, but it doesn’t come close to this. His breath catches, his heart stutters, he needs to be outside. Killian ties up his boots, is still putting on his coat and scarf when he throws open the door and catches her attention.

She drops her hands from the sky and waves him over to her side. The snow isn’t deep enough for it to crunch under his feet yet and it isn’t too icy, so his jog doesn’t end up with him on his back even when he slips and slides the last two feet to the car, bumping his knees rather painfully against the grate.

“Careful, tiger,” she chastises, grabbing for him.

Killian presses into her. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and her nose is an icicle against his when she rests her forehead on his, nuzzling him softly. Emma closes her eyes, her breath warming his skin.

“I can’t believe that it’s snowing. I’m just so happy,” Emma says.

He thinks of her toes on his ankle, her hands stuffed beneath his back, and him rubbing circles into her back while she breathes against his chest.

She can’t see it, can’t see how he yearns for that, but it’s only because her eyes are still closed - can’t feel how much he wants it because he wields some self-control, stops himself just short of kissing her.

“You can’t stand the cold,” Killian murmurs.

She’s always so warm when he has her in his arms.

Emma heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes indulgently, a smile quirking underneath as she says, “But this isn’t just cold. This is snow. This is magic.”

She kisses him, one hand coming up behind his head to cradle him closer, the other tugging at his arm until he falls forward more, his knees resting between hers.

“We should walk before it gets too snowy. I wanted to go to the docks,” Emma says, pulling back slightly.

He nods, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. “Watch the snow fall on the water?”

“I was thinking I could attempt to draw it. It’s going to be terrible, but…”

She shrugs. There’s a slight tinge of embarrassment but even that fades when he lifts his mouth up in a soft smile, one that grows at how easy it is to ease the tension from her, ballooning his chest with something much more than pride that he can make her smile despite herself, that he can turn her uncertainty into this: Emma’s arms wrapped around him as she climbs off the hood, settling with her toes at his ankles and her nose pressed to his scarfed neck.

He leans his head down on hers, says, “Let me get my notebook. We can be terrible together,” but it’s a long while before he actually moves to do so - only when she draws back and pokes him in the chest.

“Get moving. It’s cold,” Emma says.

He lifts both eyebrows at her - considers not saying it for a moment but dashes that thought and teases, “What was that about this being not just cold?”

Killian doesn’t wait for her heated response because it _is_ cold. On the way to grabbing his notebook, he grabs an extra pair of fingerless gloves for her and one of his hoodies. It’ll fit underneath her coat.

“You said you were cold,” he says when she lifts her eyebrows at the items.

“Thank you,” she says, takes off her coat only long enough to slip into his hoodie and then puts it back on over it, slipping on the gloves too.

“Warm,” she says, grabs his gloved hand and tugs him beside her.

They walk hand in hand to the docks, some kind of picturesque movie moment where neither of them says a thing but she smiles when he looks at her, and he can feel her eyes on him when he looks out at the buildings. She waves at a couple of the workers, and one of them gives Killian a look.

If he was planning on doing anything untoward out here, he’s shit out of luck.

Luckily for them, the most untoward thing he can think of when it’s this cold out is snuggling against her for warmth - which he does, as soon as they find a good enough spot.

“I need to take my gloves off,” Emma moans sadly.

“Yeah,” Killian says as he shirks his own.

She scoots closer to him on the bench and that’s all he gets before he’s lost her, and she hunches over her sketchpad - it doesn’t look new, looks worn at the edges, like it used to be well-loved, like it’s heading to becoming that way again soon - drawing outlines and the beginnings of an image, careful work.

It’s a hard process, Killian knows, so he tries to shift as quietly as possible, trying not to move too much as he opens his own notebook and tries to think of something, anything to write.

He glances at Emma again, at the frown in her brow every time she looks up and thinks of flowers, of the lines in his mother’s own brow, the dabs of paint on her cheeks, like flower petals.

There’s something about putting his memories of his mother down on paper that makes them feel _alive_. It’s odd writing her name down as “Rosalind Jones,” but it feels right after a while, when it’s “Rosalind combs her fingers through your hair,” her name some kind of poetry in and of itself.

He drifts through memories - half started thoughts, half-remembered scenes - crossed out lines, notes on the edges and filling the margins. By the time his paper starts to get wet with thicker snowflakes, his fingers are also starting to numb at the tips, which makes it difficult to hold a pen, even more so to write anything. His mind doesn’t feel up to the task anymore either, the cold seeping in and freezing his thoughts in their tracks.

The best he can do is turn to Emma.

She feels it when he shifts, looking up to meet his eyes. “Call it quits?” she suggests, her teeth chattering.

“Yeah.”

She nods. “I have the basics down anyway.”

She closes her sketchpad, slipping it back into her shoulder bag and Killian offers her his too. She takes it up protectively and says, “Are you going to share this with me sometime soon?”

“Yeah. I will,” he promises, an easy one to make. He wants to tell her more. He imagines it’ll sound better edited and revised however. Killian thinks he might have misspelled ‘lounged’ at some point.

His mouth quirks up in a smile at the thought and Emma catches it, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she probes.

“Ratched’s still moving out, but uh, the house will be empty by Monday?”

Emma nods. “Deep thoughts, huh?”

He winks, which just makes her shake her head and laugh. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her ‘what?’ until she curls into him and says, “Do you think it’ll be as cold at Haven as it is here?”

“Colder, probably,” Killian says.

She’s wondering about Haven. He’s not sure that’s a good sign or if it’s a sign of anything at all except that their visit is next week and she’ll be making the decision whether to apply or not, and Ratched’s moving out. She’s moving out and his future is starting, and he’s caught himself dreaming more often than not about Emma going to Haven with him instead of MMU.

He wraps his arm around her, pulling her snugly against him.

If he had any thoughts about doing something untoward, now would be the time to do it, when the snowflakes are melting on their coats and Emma’s curled up to him, her warmth beating away the cold in his chest. It would be the perfect time to press his cold lips to hers, warm each other even more.

“Are you still having deep thoughts?” Emma asks.

“Not exactly,” Killian admits.

“You’re kind of obvious, you know,” Emma says.

“Am I?”

“If you want to kiss me, I’m not stopping you,” she replies.

He shifts her in his arms and she shifts, too, and there’s a dusting of snow against her nose, turning the tip bright red. Killian brushes it away with his free hand, thankful that his sprain has healed enough that he can actually do simple things like this. She’s biting at the inside of her cheek, he can see it sinking in, and he smiles, cups her cheek and says, “You’re _kind of_ obvious, too.”

She doesn’t stop him when he kisses her, throws herself into it, so obvious in wanting him that he can only respond in kind.

The cold turns biting just when she’s practically climbing into his lap, and he’d let her continue to rub against him, even through all the layers it feels good, but he’s not letting her freeze to death on Thanksgiving, and “Besides,” she moans sadly as he pulls back, “It’s almost time for dinner.”

“I need to go meet Victor,” Killian groans, pulling her up off the seat with him.

Emma laughs, and says, “Come on, it won’t be so bad, will it? At least there’ll be good food.”

“And Victor,” Killian says.

He doesn’t mean it so much as he says it. He _likes_ Victor, and this year, even Rose and Jefferson are joining them. So, Victor’s empty seats won’t be so empty and his father can’t give him the “What are you doing with your future?” talk when Victor’s eighteenth is next week, and he has four of them to give him the ‘dead-eyes, it’s Thanksgiving, spare us’ look. Of which Victor has directed them to give should his father inevitably start on the speech.

“And snow falling outside,” Emma says.

“Mmm.”

“And I’ll be suffering, too,” Emma supplies helpfully.

“Really?” Killian asks.

Emma nods vigorously. “My mom invited Graham, August, and Granny, Marco, and Ruby will be there and it’s going to be an awful mess of adults flirting badly around the turkey and Ruby encouraging them.”

Killian shakes his head. “Sounds awful.”

“It will be. Trust me,” Emma says.

“I do.”

The walk back to his house is less picturesque this time, more bitterly cold, and Killian bundles her against him as much as he can with her laughing, “I’m fine, stop trying to steal my warmth.”

Still, she starts her car up as soon as they’re within sight of it, letting it heat up on its own. And those last few steps, she stumbles across the snow covered ground at the speed she’s moving.

“You’re right,” Killian says as he catches up to her. She turns her head to look at him, a questioning tilt in her head, and he supplies, “It’s simply magic that you’ve yet to slip and fall.”

“Shut up.”

She waves him off, throwing open her car door and bending to put her bag on the passenger seat. She shifts up with the door still open behind her and pulls him towards her.

“Is your house warm enough?” she asks.

He smiles soft. “Are you worried I’ll freeze?”

She shakes her head like she’s embarrassed but still she asks, “Can you even survive on your own?”

“I can,” he insists.

“My dad’s going to check on you,” Emma says. “Pretty regularly. Just warning you.”

“Did you ask him to…?”

Killian frowns at the thought - her father must already know about _them_ but Emma getting her father to check up on him is...

She replies, “No, but I want him to,” and Killian can’t help but smile at that. He didn’t really see Emma asking the Sheriff to do it, considering all the times she threatened to call him on Killian and never did so, but knowing that it’s something she wants, well, he doesn’t mind that.

(It’s _something_ having someone to genuinely worry about him.)

(It’s truly _something_ that she cares.)

“Can’t let you die while you’re still useful,” she adds.

“Touching,” he drawls.

She leans up and touches her lips to his cheek, not quite a kiss when they’re so cold, but the intent is there.

“It is, isn’t it?” she says when she falls back.

“Go on home,” he says. “Text me when things get too bad at your dinner.”

She laughs, both eyebrows raised. “Oh, get ready for the adventures of Marco, Granny, and Thanksgiving Wine.”

“I’ll try, but who can truly prepare for that?”

“Hey!” Emma says brightly, eyes lighting up. “I can drink legally in three years.”

He shakes his head, pursing his lips together regretfully. “So close, and yet so far.” He places a last kiss on her cheek before gently pushing her down so she can get into her seat. “I’ll see you and your dad later, I suppose?” Killian says.

She closes the door on him but winds down the window to say, “I’m his favorite deputy.”

“I have no doubt.”

-

Emma hates this.

She never thought she could actually hate something more than she hated being left by the Swans or left by Neal, more than she could hate Ruby’s mom for choosing the wild over her best friend, more than she could hate Elsa’s parents for leaving her and Anna behind -

She hates when people leave. It’s a complex, she has it, she won’t admit it to anyone else, but it’s there, real and alive in this moment when Killian turns to her at the end of the tour and says, “Do you see?”

Because she does see.

Haven...it’s perfect for him. Like its name, even, a damn haven for him, and it’s not the school that she hates, couldn’t ever bring herself to hate something that makes him smile like this. No, she hates herself for telling him to apply to MMU when Haven is perfect for him.

(She hates when people leave; hates it even more when it’s for the best.)

“I see,” Emma says, nodding softly.

He gives her a curious look and she steels herself for him asking, “What’s wrong?”

Killian doesn’t disappoint, questions, “Is there…? Do you not like it?”

Saying she doesn’t like it would be a lie, so it’s easy for her to say, “I _do_. I like you here. You should go here.”

“Whoa,” Killian says, grasping at her shoulders and staring down at her.

She smarts at that. She’s not a kid that needs a talking down to.

But his hands start to massage gently and she realizes that her shoulders are stiff and her parents will meet them here in five minutes and she needs to calm down before she sees them.

“Emma, you don’t have to -”

She takes a deep breath. “I mean it, Killian, you should go here. It’s perfect for you. I can see you here.” She sucks in another breath and exhales, “I _want_ to see you here, okay?”

“Okay,” he says softly. He doesn’t quite smile but he looks lighter when he repeats it, “Okay. Alright, Emma.”

(She doesn’t really feel that okay or alright, but that’s fine for now.)

(Just fine.)

-

It’s easier to be fine when the first of the calls comes through. She puts Marian on speaker for her parents and Killian to hear as she screams, “I got in! I got in! I got in!”

It’s easier to be fine when Marian’s words are echoing in her ear and then Killian’s and her phones beep at the same time, with Tink’s text.

**3:11:  Got in! Full scholarship somehow? I don’t even know how that works but MMU I’m coming for uuuuuuuu**

It’s even easier when Elsa calls and just stays silent for a full two minutes, breathing quietly into the speaker, until she finally says, “I’ve been accepted. They want me at their school and I’m not sure what to do.”

“You smile, scream, be happy, honey,” her mother says into the phone.

“Agreed,” her father says.

“Same here,” Killian echoes.

Elsa screams, and it’s good that they’re in the almost empty parking lot and not in the dining hall any longer because it’s loud enough to dislodge several birds from the apple trees dotted around the campus.

“Anna just screamed, too,” Elsa says. “I have to go, but I’m so -” She sniffles. “I need a moment. I shall talk to you later, Emma.”

 _Later_ , when she gets home and realizes that she still has to finish that supplement for Haven, her hands freezing over her keyboard as she stares and tries to come up with an answer to “Why do you want to go to our school?” when the only one she can muster is, “Because I don’t want to be left behind.”

(It’s a complex, she has it, so what?)

Later, she lies down in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to piece together her future and finding the puzzle impossible to navigate.

(So what that she has no idea what to do?)

Belle’s text comes through as Emma’s turning down for sleep at - she stares at the screen - 8:34 at night.

**8:34: I’ve been deferred to general admission so a few more months until I find out :( but then both Ruby and I will know :D**

Emma texts back a quick, “Aww, at least now you can change your mind if you want!”

She laughs at herself, self-deprecating (not quite loathing) at the thought of how much she’s changed her mind just by thinking of where that mind is in respect to colleges, futures, _life_ and _love_.

Where is Emma’s mind? She has no idea.

She shrugs off the sheets and climbs out of bed. The walk down the stairs is quiet. She isn’t sure whether her mother is working or not, knows her father’s still out patrolling, so he can’t help, not with this. He would know what’s upsetting her, maybe not how to fix it, but he wouldn’t look at her in the confusion she’s expecting from her mother.

Emma read her wrong because when she knocks on her mother’s door, she only looks confused for a second before she says, “Did you want to talk about today, sweetie?”

Emma stumbles into the room, the grips on her socks squeaking across the floor. The light is brighter in here. She can feel herself being studied and determined - ‘this is what you should do, _this_ is where you should go.’

“Killian really loves it there,” Emma murmurs as she plops down into the rolling chair across from her mother’s. She sets her feet down on the base, wiggling them nervously.

“I know,” her mother replies.

She feels scrutinized, excruciatingly so, that is, until her mother takes her hand and pulls her rolling chair close enough that their knees knock together.

Trying to work out her feelings in words that make some kind of sense, Emma stammers, “I don’t...I don’t think I’ve truly felt that way about a school. Granted I’ve only visited two so far, but the whole situation, it doesn’t excite me. Is there something - I know it’s wrong, but -”

“It’s not wrong to feel that way. Emma,” She rubs Emma’s and her hands together like she’s trying to rub warmth into the skin and says, “You could never disappoint us, you know. College isn’t the end all and be all of your future.”

“Yes, it is,” Emma argues. “How can I get a proper job if I don’t have a degree, Mom?”

Her mother raises an eyebrow, her mouth settling into a stern line, the lecture certainly incoming.

(‘First of all…’)

“First of all, you can. It wouldn’t be easy, but you certainly can. Secondly, that isn’t what I meant to say. Emma, I know we’ve talked a lot about college as the immediate future, but you don’t have to go right now. If you’re not ready for it, you can certainly wait.”

“I just - I don’t know?”

She really _doesn’t_ know. She thought it would be more...more of a thing than her mother’s understanding gaze. She thought it’d be an argument.

An argument would be less of a headache.

“There’s gap years, Emma. You can defer your enrollment for any school you get into. It’s all up to you,” her mother explains.

“Geez, that really helps.”

Her mother sighs and squeezes Emma’s hands comfortingly.

“I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your life after all, but I can suggest that you think about it. _Really_ think about it. Maybe let us take you to visit a few more schools during our winter break. But whatever you decide, know that we’ll support you.”

“Well, that I know,” Emma says, trying to throw off her mother’s sincerity with sarcasm, which would’ve worked fine if she didn’t jump out of her seat to hug her.

It’s a display of wild affection that Emma hasn’t shown in years, she doesn’t think, but the responding hug is like she does it all the time.

Emma really, _really_ loves her mother.

“I love you, sweetie,” her mother says into her shoulder.

(So, the feeling is mutual.)

-

“Till death do us part,” Victor says, drawing his arm around Killian’s shoulder. “And murder is illegal, as a reminder to you, in case you were considering that.”

Killian barely has the energy to even respond to Victor’s jabs, let alone wish him dead. Although he manages a few murderous thoughts here and there, most of his energies are focused on more important matters.

They’re still on speaking terms, on kissing terms, on snuggling at his house terms, but it’s been off since the trip to Haven. There’s something Emma isn’t telling him, and he’s certain that it’s that she doesn’t love Haven.

Which is fine.

It’s completely fine.

But she truly - she _meant_ it when she told him to go to Haven. She meant it that day, meant it when he called her the day after and asked her whether she was sure, huffing it into the phone, “Yes, I’m sure,” and she meant it when she picked him up for school and kissed him on the cheek, telling him, “Yes, I want you to go,” before he could even ask, her gaze warning him that if he asked again, she’d be sure to leave him to walk as well.

“Stop brooding and pay attention to me,” Jefferson says, snapping his fingers in front of Killian’s face. His eyes look red-rimmed and tired, but he always looks like that nowadays, even more so since he stopped with the hallucinogenic. He smiles at Killian and says, “That’s what I’m sure Victor wants to say instead of just pouting over the yearbook pages. They look much better since Emma intervened.”

“Of course they do. Emma’s taste is impeccable,” Ruby says.

She looks at Killian as she says this, her warning ringing loud and clear. ‘Don’t fuck this up.’ He’d love to accomplish said goal, but Emma’s making it hard at the moment. It’s much easier not to screw things over when he isn’t being left in the dark.

He doesn’t want to think of what she might be hiding but she is hiding something, and if it was good, he’d recognize that smile peeking between her words, but it’s something leaving her uncertain, so it leaves him that way, too.

(She’d been so upset at the thought of him going to school without her and now she’s the one that seems distant.)

“Are you here to help or are you just hiding out in the yearbook office?” Ruby asks, poking at Killian’s shoulder. “Belle could use your help in the library if you’re not busy.”

“I could go there,” Killian says.

“Thank you,” Ruby replies, throwing her head back happily.

“Although I get the sense that you just want me out of your way, I do admire your loyalty to your girlfriend. It’s truly -”

“Finish that sentence and I’m throwing you out of here. Bodily,” she says.

She curls her nail underneath his chin and taps lightly. So close to his throat.

Too close.

Killian puts his hands up in the air in surrender until she draws back and he can safely grab his bag. The interaction is enough to keep him smiling all the way up until he gets to Belle’s library and steps into the doorway to see Emma huddled over college pamphlets, her laptop open on what, even from this distance, he can recognizes as the Yale admissions page.

So, there’s the big secret out then.

He strides in and says, “Hey, sweetheart.” Emma jumps in her seat as he calls out, “Hello to you, too, Belle, wherever you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m just short,” Belle says, her heels clicking to make her point. She could be wearing six inch high heels and he wouldn’t catch her behind the shelves, which she steps around to wave at him.

He takes the seat across from Emma, staring at her as she stares at her laptop screen, studiously avoiding his gaze. He looks over the pamphlets and says, “I thought you finished applications?”

“I did,” Emma says.

“So, is this…?” He waves at the pamphlets. “Is this all for fun? Extra credit? Going to win yourself a scholarship by applying to as many schools as possible?”

She actually looks at him at that, her gaze narrowed defensively. “This is not your concern.”

“Really?”

He feels the muscle in his jaw throb as he clenches his teeth together.

“Really,” Emma insists.

“So, what are you just going to keep this to yourself until the last minute?” He leans in, quietly says, “I understand if you don’t want to go to Haven. But, I’d at least like to know where you’re looking at? Seems like something worth sharing.”

“I’m not looking at anything at the moment,” Emma snaps. She rolls her eyes and mutters, “And it doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously matters if you’re keeping it from me,” Killian argues.

“I’m not keeping anything from you.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come over for Christmas.”

“Why would I -”

He stops himself short, her words finally connecting.

“Want to do that?” Emma finishes. She rolls her shoulders, frowning deeply. “I know. Seems absurd.”

Quickly, he says, “That isn’t what I meant. Emma, please don’t finish my sentences.”

“Sorry, I forgot we’re not one of ‘those couples,’” Emma says sardonically, her finger quotes around those couples more like jabs at the sky.

He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get why this is something that she’s so annoyed about so he snaps back, “Sorry? What are we even fighting about?”

Emma wilts at that, almost an instant dropping down farther in her seat. “Are we fighting? I thought...” She sighs and asks, “Sorry. Do you want to come over for Christmas?”

The question is asked so seriously, not a hint of anger behind it this time, just a simple request that isn’t so simple, that this time, leaves him lost for words. He can’t even manage to reply except to shrug.

Her hurt is bruising at that, worse than a sprain, or a break, just a twisting of her features as she says, “So I suppose that’s a no.”

“That isn’t.”

What can he say? He thought that she was hiding the fact that she wanted to go to a different school from him. Killian didn’t trust her to tell him if that’s what she was thinking. He’s the asshole (a running theme lately, dominant characteristic above everything else) who spent the past week worrying that even after everything that Emma’s told him, that after sharing her heart with him, she would just... _drop_ him at the slightest sign of trouble. What can he say but that he still hates himself enough that he thinks that she’d feel the same, that he really doesn’t understand how she can just forgive him...would almost be more comfortable with her not doing so because it’s what he’s used to.

(But not from her. Never from her.)

He stares at her as her face falls more.

“So do you not want this or what?” Emma says, her hurt so palpable that he can’t say any of that at all, words not enough of an apology for misunderstanding, for doubting.

“I _do_ ,” he says sincerely. Scrambling up on his feet he walks around the table and takes the seat beside her instead. Killian grasps her face firmly between his hands, tilting her head up to meet him. Kissing her once, a faint brush of affection, he draws back and says, “I do.”

But that isn’t enough he knows, sees it in her wary gaze, searching his for an explanation and suddenly embarrassed by himself, ashamed, he leans back tucking one hand in his front pocket, the other lifting to tug at the hair behind his head.

“Do you really want me at your Christmas?” he asks. “Emma, that’s a lot to put on you, having me there.”

There’s still hurt in her expression but there’s understanding there too, and it feels a little worse to have her understand just how fucked up he truly he is - that her inviting him isn’t enough to soothe those parts of him that are too scared to believe.

“I’m not someone that invites people over for the sake of being nice,” Emma says. She shrugs, testing out a smile, and says, “Try as she might, my mom didn’t really instill that kind of hospitality in me.”

She shrugs again and says, “Yeah, it’s a lot, but if you say no to me, I might cry, and do you really want to deal with that? I’m an ugly crier.”

Emma’s not someone to guilt anyone into doing something so he takes her words for what they are, sincerity. His heart pangs at that, that he could be the one to make her nearly cry again.

“I doubt that, but I do find myself unwilling to test the theory. So Christmas Day, then, I’ll come for dinner?”

“Not exactly.” She glances at him and it’s weird and a bit horrifying how much she looks like Principal Blanchard with that tilt in her chin and eagerness in her eyes. “You’ll come over the afternoon of Christmas Eve because you’ll be helping us decorate the tree. The _real_ tree, not the one we have in the living room, but the one we keep in the basement. It’s a long story, but we do it every year. You have to bring an ornament for it, doesn’t matter what. I haven’t decided mine yet, actually, but…Then you’ll help my mom bake the cookies, I volunteered you for that task this year while my dad and I do Christmas rounds. And when we come back we’ll watch a movie before bed. Christmas we just have present opening and dinner, which you’ll have to help with. You _can_ cook, right?”

“Emma,” he says.

She takes a breath.

“That’s _a lot_ ,” he says.

“Think you can handle it?” she asks, all the assuredness gone in one shaky breath. She plays with the bracelet on her wrist, waiting for his reply.

He smiles. “Well, I am always up for a challenge.”

Obviously relieved, she pulls him back towards her and kisses him.

With her hands still hooked in his shirt, he says, “Still,” looking towards the pamphlets on the table, “What is that about?”

“Gap years? I wanted to see which schools allowed them. Some of the schools I applied to aren’t very comfortable with them.”

She’s thinking of a gap year, he’s got that much. He senses that there’s a bit more to this than she’s saying at the moment, but he allows it if only because she’s pleading with him to, her fingers pulling and winding in his shirt.

Turning the conversation aside, he says, “The yearbook is shaping up. All thanks to you.”

“Oh, are you two done hissing at each other and kissing right?” Belle asks.

Killian glances up at her.

“Sorry,” Emma says, and it’s good that Belle can’t see her face because she’s biting back a grin that Killian doesn’t even try to deflect on his own face.

Belle shakes her head. “Anyway, I’d appreciate it if we left the couple fights out of my library. Break up on your own time.”

“Yes, Warden,” Killian says.

“I’m no longer your warden, Killian. I set you free,” Belle states.

“You’ll always be my sweet warden,” he assures her.

She gives him the finger.

And it’s either that, or the way Emma looks at him that has him rolling his head back in laughter, either that or the way Emma grabs his hand and squeezes like they’re good.

They’re good.

Everything is good.

And he feels _good_ enough to laugh.

-

He’s nervous as hell when he shows up at Emma’s door and it shows in the way he swaggers up to the door, all charm and smiles when her mother welcomes him inside.

Emma shakes her head and grabs for his hand, dragging him towards the stairs.

“We set up the guest room for you,” Emma explains loud enough that her mother hears her explaining it.

Just so there’s no miscommunications. Emma said it, they have separate rooms, no Christmas sex, save it for another time.

Killian nods at that, and calls down the stairs, “Thank you, Ms. Blanchard.”

“Please, call me Mary Margaret,” her mother shouts back.

Emma rolls her eyes. “ _Please_ , don’t indulge her.”

She can practically hear her mom pouting, but she’ll have plenty of chances to bend Killian to her will. In this one, at least, he’ll bend to Emma’s.

“It smells really Christmas-like in here,” Killian comments as Emma pushes him towards the guest room, past her bedroom, which he doesn’t even bother to look into.

Oh god, he’s _nervous_.

“Drop your bag off and you can, uh, come keep me company while I finish making my ornament?” Emma says.

She leaves him at the door of the guest room and walks back to hers. Her room’s straight enough, nowhere close to Killian’s neat room, but at least there’s no underwear piled on the floor anymore and there’s a visible path to her door.

She isn’t messy, to say, but she’s been stressed and she either cleans obsessively or lets her room reflect her state of mind, and as mixed as that’s been lately, her room has been too. Still, now that she’s mostly certain of her school non-choice, her room is mostly clean.

Plopping on the bed, she picks up her ornament from where she left it, prying closed the open chain link.

“Dirty boots on the rug, Emma?” Killian announces his presence from the doorway.

He waffles there before finally stepping inside. She rolls her eyes at him and goes back to fumbling with the chain of the ornament. It’s nothing too creative, but Killian’s eyes light up when he notices the little notepad and pen on the chain, and ‘Captain Jones’ written across it.

“I do believe, Swan, that great minds think alike.”

Emma looks up again when out of his pocket, he pulls a tiny paintbrush. On the tiny paintbrush, _his_ name for her, ‘Lady Swan’.

Emma laughs and says, “That’s so dumb. I’m not a painter.”

“You could be,” he pouts.

Realizing her tone, she says, gratefully, “Yeah, I’ll try.”

His face lights up again. “And I’ll keep writing then.”

“Speaking of, I still have your book,” Emma says. Killian quirks a brow in confusion, “From Thanksgiving. You forgot it in my backpack.”

“Oh,” he says. He scratches at his neck and says, “Did you read it?”

“I didn’t think that would be right. It’s your stuff,” Emma says.

“Good. Good,” he says.

A weird look crosses his face but he shrugs it off and says, “Are we to hang these on the tree then?”

“Yes, yeah, I didn’t explain that, did I?” She makes sure her chain is tight enough before she gets up, but he’s moved farther into her room, running his fingers over all the books on her shelf. She doesn’t have a file cabinet, but she has a host of Dr. Seuss books, so she’s pretty sure she’s winning in cool rooms.

“When I was little, my first Christmas, they wanted to get a real tree but we didn’t have the chance to get one before the end of the season, so they bought the fake one. And my mom, in order to make me feel better, she said that we’d put our absolute favorite thing on the tree, no matter what those things were. My favorite thing, of course, was my mother’s cocoa and my dad’s sheriff’s badge.” She laughs at Killian’s expression. “Yeah, I know, hard things to put on a tree, but we set up the Sheriff’s station camera on a timer and all of us got our mugshots taken, cocoa in our hands and my dad, he had the cocoa moustache.”

He moves from her bookshelf to her desk, the homework and textbooks piled atop it. He spends a long moment staring at the picture of her and Ruby as middle schoolers with awkward haircuts and awkward limbs thrown around each other. Emma cringes but his smile is gentle.

“So, with my mom’s help we made a frame for the picture out of popsicle sticks. I needed her help eating all the popsicles, actually. I was pretty handy with the glue and glitter. And then we made it our ‘Angel at the top of the tree.’ So you’ll see that. But we each put whatever other ornament we want, and even when we got the real decorative tree the next year, we did the same thing. It was just...instant tradition.”

“That’s really nice, Emma. Truly,” Killian says, and he has this way of saying things that could be the most insincere that sound so sincere that it tears at her heart.

“I’m glad you can be a part of it,” Emma says, trying for the same sincerity.

He turns towards her, taking the first step in her direction and says, “I’m glad I can be, too.” They meet halfway, Emma’s toes at his before he says, “Thank you for inviting me. I’m a little nervous, first Christmas jitters I suppose.”

“First?” Emma asks, not sure how her voice goes so soft and breathless.

He scratches at his neck and says, “I am hoping that there’ll be a second. If that’s alright with you.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says.

For the moment, she thinks of him at Haven and her...somewhere and wonders what Christmas break will even look like in the coming years.

But that’s too heavy a thought for Christmas so she grabs his wrist and says, “Let’s go put our ornament on the tree, Captain Jones.”

“Yes, after you, Lady Swan.”

It’s the only moment they get for when they get downstairs, as soon as they’ve both fought over who gets the second highest spot on the tree and Killian’s pointed out that she _too_ had a cocoa moustache in her first Christmas photo, Emma’s mother comes in, reindeer-eared camera in hand.

Emma’s weak. She flees, leaving Killian to be dragged into the kitchen as soon as her father steps inside, even before he announces that he needs her.

“Rounds, let’s do this!” Emma says.

“Someone’s pumped,” her father comments looking from her to Killian.

He nods knowingly at the fear in Killian’s eyes, and says, “Good luck.”

Emma’s mother laughs indulgently and pats him on the back. “You’ll be fine. They’re just cookies.”

She and her father share a look, eyebrows raised in unison.

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Emma asks, worriedly as she steps out the door.

“He’s a resilient kid. He’ll be fine.”

Emma’s not so certain.

-

“They’re just cookies,” Ms. Blanchard says, tapping Killian on the back and surprising him into nearly fudging up the cookie cutter.

He looks to her and she says, “No need to make them perfect.”

“Says the woman whose cookies are effortlessly perfect,” Killian drawls unthinkingly.

Her laughter echoes off the pots and pans, and off the inside of Killian’s head, bouncing off the quickly racing thoughts and apologies.

“Perfection is never effortless,” she says. “But I try hard enough that it seems so. You know, the team insists that you’re the perfect captain.”

She adds that last part like it makes sense for it to be coupled with that - and it does. He tries hard with them. But he isn’t perfect.

He looks at her cookies. There’s one with heart shaped eyes just a little too off, so neither is she. It’s weird to compare himself to Emma’s mother, but he finds himself doing it all the same.

“Please, teach me your cookie ways. I’m struggling,” Killian begs her.

“There’s a trick to it,” Ms. Blanchard says.

She lets him watch as she does it, and he doesn’t see what the trick is except that she hums happily as she cuts the shapes, smiling every time they come out the way they should and she pokes at him as she moves past him and says, “I know my husband and daughter like to act like I make every holiday out to be some big affair, but this is pretty big, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t get her question for a moment, not until he meets her eyes and sees the same gentleness in them that they had when she asked him why he did it, why he didn’t trust anyone to help him. He feels just as small as he did then, and yet, she’s right, this is big. This is huge, because he didn’t have anyone to trust back then, no one but himself.

And now he has his friends, Emma, he has Christmas at her house, baking cookies with her mother (baking cookies with the Principal and waiting for the Sheriff to get back.)

“I guess,” he tries to shrug it off.

“Is there anything you want to do? I know Agora isn’t the warmest of people, and that perhaps your Christmas hasn’t been as…”

She fumbles for words so Killian, in lieu of patting her on the back and telling her everything will be alright, says, “Your snowman’s head is too big.”

“Oh, I see,” she says. “You share in the Nolan-Swan tradition of pointing out all my cookie errors.”

“I didn’t mean,” he stammers.

She leans in and says, “It’s my favorite tradition. Those are the ones that usually taste the best, according to Emma, because they taste of woe and disappointment.”

“Happy Christmas thoughts,” Killian says.

“I cried the first year we attempted cookies and I burnt them. Emma didn’t really understand. Everything seemed to be going wrong and I wanted it to be perfect.” After a pause, she adds, “But she loves that tree. And she still eats my slightly burnt cookies. Woe and disappointment.”

“You burn them on purpose, don’t you?”

She jerks her head up, stammering, “I don’t - that is I really wouldn’t - but.” She places her hands on the cookie tray, cutting the last few with a perfected, nervous efficiency. “Don’t tell Emma.”

“Not a word,” Killian says.

He moves out of her way so she can move towards the oven and he grabs her other finished tray, the heart-eyed reindeer looking delicious even unbaked.

“I think you should try not burning the cookies this year. I think that’s what I want to do.” Quietly, he adds, “My mother never burned the cookies.”

“What a talent,” she sighs, the longing palpable.

Killian sighs, too, and says, “Do you mind if I just run up to the guest room? I have some gifts. I’d like to put them beneath the tree.”

She smiles and says, “Of course.” She stops his turn with the question, “Is the wrapping paper nice?”

He lifts his eyebrow in confusion. “I suppose so.”

“Perfect. Emma loves nice wrapping paper. She has a little collage of it and -” Her eyes widen as Killian stares. “Don’t tell her I told you.”

“I’m sure she already assumes you’ve shared all her secrets with me,” Killian says.

“That’s true,” she says. “Well, hurry up. We have to start the next batch.”

“Who can eat all these cookies?”

She grins. “Oh, you’ll manage.”

Killian sees it for a moment, the reason Emma was so afraid to stay behind, the steel behind her mother’s holiday gentleness. He puts aside the thought of just having one or two cookies, looks at the tray and vows to eat at least ten.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Killian assures her.

She hums a happy tune as she twists to the cabinets. “Now, where did I put that cinnamon sugar?”

He has no doubt that she knows exactly where the cinnamon sugar is, but he knows when to take a graceful bow out, and he does, maybe not gracefully, actually, but he leaves the kitchen and the smell of baking sugar behind.

Pausing before the tree, he stares at the picture of Emma and her parents again.

This is big.

This is huge.

Standing beside the tree, shorter than him, he feels very small, somehow small enough to weave his way into their life with ease. It’s easy to be here.

“Killian! Hurry up!” her mother calls from the kitchen and he gives one last glance at the tree, at Emma’s ornament, hanging right beside his.

Before she can call again, he skips up the stair, feeling very small, but the bubble of warmth in his chest more than big enough to make up for it.

-

The Christmas movie is ridiculously bad, but all Hallmark movies are, and Emma whispers when she drags Killian to the kitchen for a cup of cocoa, “It’s my father’s fault. Made for TV movies are his _thing_.” To illustrate the severity of her claim, she adds, “His favorite channel is the Lifetime Movie Network.”

“I take it that’s bad,” Killian says.

“It’s bad,” Emma affirms.

The cocoa is still hot on the stove so she just pours them both a cup while she directs him towards the fridge for the whipped cream. He handles that while she grabs the cinnamon, decorating the whipped cream in it when he steps away.

Perfect, she thinks, seconds before he sweeps his fingers through _her_ whipped cream - the Gryffindor mug is hers, and there’s no reciprocating on stealing each other’s mugs, he can’t have it, Christmas or not - and he brushes said fingers across her cheek and lip.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Sorry,” I didn’t even realize he says. But there’s a devilish glint to his smile, an intent that makes her heart skip - and he licks his fingers clean before she realizes what he’s planning and she tilts her head up, makes it easy for him to kiss the path from her cheek to her lip, licking away the whipped cream.

She makes a soft sound, one that she hopes he doesn’t hear and when he pulls away, she reaches for his mug, to return the favor only to freeze, gaping as her mother and father stand in the kitchen, staring at her and Killian. They make a terrible effort to exit until finally her mother just says, “We didn’t want to interrupt. We were just -”

“Watching. Which is worse, if you needed clarification.”

“Thanks for the clarification,” her father says. Brightly he adds, “We’re starting another movie. It’s early enough that we have time for one more.”

“Yay!” Emma says, but she means it, grateful for the change in topic. It’s enough to fade the pink from her cheeks and as she turns to Killian, he looks less horrified than she expects him to, more disappointed.

“I know,” Emma whispers. “The suffering never ends.”

As she grabs up her hot cocoa, she leans up on her tiptoes, not caring, just dropping a kiss on his cheek anyway, and that devilish glint comes back full-force.

(Her mother falls asleep in self-defense halfway through the movie so with her father’s eyes glued to the screen, Killian sneaks a kiss or three.)

(Or five, whipped cream brushed across her lips and melting on his tongue.)

-

It must be only six in the morning, so Killian isn’t expecting to hear voices as he sneaks out of his room to grab a glass of water.

Especially not Emma’s, her voice rising louder as he descends the stairs and turns into the living room.

“Frosty,” she says.

“Santa,” her mother says.

They’re both wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, overlarge and rolled down past their hands and Emma’s toes are bright red to match the holiday, and Killian doesn’t know what to focus on, how she’s tucked them beneath her, looking utterly comfortable on the couch, the way she looks up at Killian like he’s come to save her or the way her mother narrows her eyes at him.

“Someone’s a late riser.”

“Late?” Killian asks, honestly offended.

“Christmas is the one day I wake up early,” Emma says. “Don’t fret.”

“I wasn’t fretting,” Killian says.

(He was fretting.)

“Santa or Frosty?” her mother asks.

“Frosty,” Killian says without thinking.

Emma presses her fist to the sky and says, “Sorry, mom. Guest rules.”

“That isn’t what you said when Ruby voted for Santa last year.”

“I’m sorry, can’t hear you over Killian voted for Frosty and we’re watching Frosty.”

Emma grins at him, patting the seat beside her on the couch, and it’s bewildering, a bit, to curl up between her mother and her on the couch, to have Emma lean back against him and thread his fingers through hers, holding his hand while snow flits across the screen, and Emma whispers, “Snow is magic,” all soft and innocent, like a child watching Frosty the Snowman for the first time.

“That it is,” Killian says.

-

Gift opening is the worst kind of hell when you’re Emma. She’s sentimental, she can admit that, but it’s embarrassing, peeling the gifts as slowly as she does in front of Killian, especially when it’s his, when she’s even more desperate to keep the gift paper nice, neat, and untorn.

“Please stop staring at me,” she says.

“Sorry,” Killian says.

She can feel him turn away and she feels bad because he’s obviously as nervous as she is, but she needs him to not look as the paper finally gives way, and she can safely slide out -

The book.

It’s less a book and more a bound sheath of paper, and she can see the name scrawled across the front, the R and O scratched into his desk making sense. _Rosalind Jones_.

“This is...your book?” Emma guesses as she carefully opens it.

She looks away and catches Killian’s gaze when he turns back around. His smile is fleeting, nervous as he says, “I wanted to know if you wanted to finish the book with me? Terrible paintings, terrible writing, it could be terrible?”

Emma flips through the pages, Killian’s grade school cursive, his mother’s sweeping lines and detailed images. She really loved flowers; they’re littered on every page, in vases, in the grass, woven in the selkie’s hair.

“It could be wonderful,” Emma says.

Killian’s smile is still small, but the nervousness eases out of it as he replies, “Could be.”

“It is, thank you,” she says.

For a second, she doesn’t care that her mother and father are watching them, leaning forward to place a kiss on Killian’s surprised lips anyway. His ears start to burn almost instantly and her own cheeks alight, but it’s worth it.

It’s wonderful.                                                                                                                                                               

Her gift is not nearly so, but she tried, and that’s what she thinks matters when he carefully tears open the wrapping.

“Jefferson said you never came to him with the pictures, so I took it upon myself to just…”

She says this for both their benefit, so he doesn’t open it all the way, so he doesn’t reveal all the pictures to her parents. A kiss on Christmas is okay. An interrupted one on Christmas Eve is fine. Multiple pictures of it? Not so much.

He looks up at her, a smile playing on his lips and a questing look on his face, “You did open my book.”

“They fell out,” Emma swears.

“I believe you.”

He sounds like he doesn’t so she punches at his arm and announces to the general viewing public, “Okay open your presents. You’re allowed.”

“Oh, we _are_?” her father asks.

“Thank you for allowing me to share in your Christmas,” her father says, all drawled sarcasm, but Emma’s looking at Killian as he says it, at the way he nods just slightly, sharing in her father’s words, and when Emma replies, it’s not to him, but to that look in Killian’s eyes as he stares at her.

“You’re welcome,” Emma says.

(It’s too heavy a thought for Christmas, that there could be more to come in the future, but she has it anyway, looks at him, and has it anyway.)

(And as he smiles down at his photo album, his fingers tight on the edges, Emma knows he feels the same.)


	16. Epilogue - April 1st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so here's the epilogue, after this I'll only be adding outtakes, missing scenes, and prompts from this verse. Instead of doing a series, I'll just add them as chapters because it's easier - and I'll label all of them as they are so there's no confusion as to what's being posted. Anyways, thank you again for being with me on this journey, I hope you enjoy the epilogue (and can be patient enough to wait for the sequel haha.)

Distracted is one word for how Emma paces the carpet, back and forth, phone hanging from her hand almost absentmindedly. Hyper-focused is the more appropriate word for it.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” Emma asks.

“Because I don’t plan to tell all of my colleges ‘No’, maybe?”

She stops mid-step, taking him to task with her look. A valiant attempt, but he can’t be bothered to be worried as of yet. He’s hidden his phone and laptop in his desk drawer for that very reason. He’d much rather spend their limited time together _not_ focused on when they won’t be together.

Like this at least.

He bites his lip at the thought, and Emma notices, her own face falling. She crosses over to the bed and places her knees on the edge, crawling over to where he’s pressed himself to the wall.

“I’m worried,” she says.

“Well, if they don’t accept you, you don’t have to reject them, and everything will be fine with the world,” Killian says.

“If they don’t accept me then it means that I have no chances of going anywhere. Well, that’s a lie, a disparagement on community colleges and -”

“Disparagement, Swan?”

“I was helping Ashley study for her SAT, be quiet,” Emma says.

Killian leans into her, and says, “The best thing about having a house all to myself is that I don’t have to be quiet.” She meets his eyes, her tongue brushing over her lower lip and he lifts his hand to thumb at the dimple in her chin. “And neither do you,” he finishes.

“What if I don’t get in?” Emma moans softly.

“What if we stop worrying about that and take advantage of this time together?” Killian suggests.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Are you seriously begging me for sex?”

“Yes, Emma, I thought I made that quite obvious. I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you. I didn’t want to disparage your intelligence.”

She tackles him to the bed and if he weren’t so used to this from less friendly sources, it might come as a surprise, the elbow to his stomach. It still winds him, but a cough and a beat later, Emma’s resting atop him, her knees to either side of him, her bra more than visible through her sheer top and another beat passes while he watches the heaving of her chest before he accuses, “You want it, too.”

Emma shrugs, “You’re right, I do.”

She rocks her hips the tiniest amount against him, a delicious shiver of heat working its way up his spine. He stares at her breasts again until she laughs.

“Allow me,” she says, fingers moving to the top button of her blouse and working their way downwards, popping each button free until her shirt is hanging loose from her shoulders.

He pulls her down to him, then, thinking better of that, flips them so Emma’s lying beneath him, panting and laughing, “Make up your mind.”

“My mind has been made up for the longest time. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Tell me what?” Emma asks, forehead wrinkling slightly as she peers at him in confusion.

“That I love you,” he says.

He places a trail of kisses along her jaw, and when she moves to kiss him, he trails lower, down her neck, nipping at the skin there while she wriggles, muttering words he can’t admit to understanding, not when he’s too busy laving at a hickey he left days ago.

“Okay, this is fun, but when are you going to let me take my clothes off?” Emma says.

He smiles into her skin and then lifts his head up to grin at her, “We have several hours, don’t we?”

“Oh, I get it,” Emma nods. Mischief crosses her features as she reaches for him. He lets her fingers catch his shoulder, lets her pull him down so, in between kisses, she can say, “We’re going slow and steady.”

“I believe we were already going steady,” he says.

“Oh,” she moans, unable to get her protest out while his hands move up her belly, pushing her soft bra above her breasts so he can cup them instead.

Her nipples pebble against his palm as he massages her, gently and then firmer when she pushes her chest into his hands. He continues his massage but kisses her too, nipping at her jaw again until she nudges her mouth against his. The kiss is awkward, but he doesn’t really care - especially when she shifts until she’s pressed against his thigh and she can grind herself into him.

Killian shifts again so that their mouths actually meet. The kiss lasts for so long that he loses time, loses track of his own body until Emma grinds harder and they break apart, her soft moan in time with her rocking motions.

He kisses down her neck again, draws his hands away from her breasts but leaves them bare, dropping kisses along her neckline before sucking her nipple into his mouth, kissing and licking at the sensitive peak.

She twists, leaving one hand digging into his shoulder, the other reaching between them and he knows where she’s headed, momentarily thinks to stop her, but allows it instead. He isn’t trying to stop her from coming.

He just wants this - to suck on her until she’s writhing against him, hot and desperate, to kiss her while she’s still coming down from her high, build her up again as many times as she wants, as she can handle before he sinks into her.

The moments pass slow, whatever clock is ticking and trying to speed them along, Killian ignores it, sticking to his plan. When she comes with her jeans half opened, her own fingers on her clit, Killian leaves her breasts, leaves her nipples bright pink and swollen and still utterly kissable - and starts his path down - only to stop a few times to heed her quiet demands for him to undress until their clothes are a messy pile at the foot of his bed that Emma insists on making messier, kicking them to the floor with a smile that doesn’t pretend at innocence.

“Neat freak,” she murmurs before his mouth descends on her again, leaving marks on her belly, kissing at her bent knees, the insides of her thighs before they reach his favorite destination.

He watches her as he works his mouth over her - holds her hand tight in his, squeezes back every time he hits that spot just right and her grip tightens to the point of pain, even. He works her until he’s the one grinding against the bed, his need just as urgent as hers. He dips his tongue into her as she comes, only rolling away when his name dies on her lips - reaching for the condoms under his bed, rolling it on with hasty fingers.

“Watch out for the air in the tip,” Emma mumbles.

He grunts his disapproval - she’s never going to allow him to forget _that_ \- and moves over her, throwing her legs around him and shuffling closer.

“I thought we were going slow,” Emma says, angling against him just right for him to catch the last word in a gasped breath, her breathing going slow as she struggles to calm it when he’s just buried himself to the hilt inside her - he can’t slow his own breathing, guesses he was mistaken in his thinking.

At least this he manages to slow, his pace lazy and unhurried despite the hunger clawing at him. He hunches over her, kissing her everywhere his mouth can reach, pausing in between thrusts just to kiss her, just to taste her breathlessness, catch her soft sighs every time he circles his hips, driving just that bit deeper.

It’s only when she starts to push against him, starts to palm at his belly and rub in circles he knows she wants to draw around her own body that he speeds up, pulls back from her lips so, keeping his grip with one hand, he can guide the other over her own hand, the both of their fingers stroking over her clit, chasing mutual bliss.

She comes only moments before he does, moaning softly when he collapses atop her.

“You’re heavy,” she murmurs but as always, she wraps her arms around him, doesn’t push him away until he rolls them so that they’re both on their sides and he’s no longer crushing her smaller frame.

He’s trying to tie off the condom when she kisses his forehead and says, “We should get going soon. We’re meeting my parents, Astrid, and Tink at the Sheriff’s station. We cannot go there or to their Jefferson and Rose’s baby shower like this.”

She starts to roll off the bed, but he pulls her back against him with his free hand and says, begging quite intentionally this time, “Emma.”

She eyes him warily. “Again? We don’t have time.”

“No, that’s not it. We can lay here a little longer, can’t we?” he says.

It isn’t - he needs to adjust his earlier thought because it isn’t that he can’t be bothered to be worried yet. He’s gotten his own hopes up these past few months, and it’s April 1st ( _April fools_ )- he doesn’t want to be the fool thinking he can have his cake and eat it, too, thinking that he can have Emma here, and Haven there, and spend as much time as he can in bliss.

Emma presses herself into his arms (he’ll regret tossing the condom aside later, definitely) and Killian holds onto her, sinking his head into the pillow while she noses the crook of his neck.

“Why must we have school and responsibilities when we could spend all our time like this?” he asks.

Emma laughs, “You’re being ridiculous,” but the almost inaudible sigh that follows says different.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t want that,” he argues.

She breathes deep, and says, “Fine. I won’t.” It’s another sigh before she says, “I do want that, but I don’t want to talk about things I can’t have.”

“You’ve got me, and you can have me whenever you like,” he says hopefully.

Emma lifts her head, twisting until he can look into her eyes. “Just like this?”

“Yea, just like this.”

-

Emma knows the Rose and Jefferson’s gift opening is supposed to be happening soon, but the green light on Killian’s phone has been going off insistently, so she drags him away from the team – and that she can still strike terror in their hearts warms hers - and out into the empty, dimly lit hallway.

“Did you check my email?”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Emma says.

He nods, scratching at his jaw. She holds out his phone to him, but he merely stares at it.

“If I don’t get in,” he sighs.

“I’ll burn down their admissions,” Emma says.

“That’s - arson is not the answer, love,” he says in sharp bewilderment, but it can’t cover his smile.

Finally, he takes the phone out of her hands, unlocks it and Emma steps in closer. He reaches out, stroking his fingers idly over her arm, but releases her a moment later, murmuring, “They want me to log in to my account. I feel like a circus clown, jumping through all these hoops, and for what?” After a moment, he repeats, even quieter, eyes glued to his phone screen, “For what?”

Emma gives him a minute before she says, “Did you log in?”

“Yeah,” he replies.

A knot tightens in her chest, one she knew would be there, just waiting for this moment - it starts on one corner of his mouth, the smile, and when it reaches the other side, it’s wide, wild, and bright.

“I take this as a good sign,” she says.

He nods. “I’m to get the admission packet in the mail sometime in the next few days with my financial aid award and information about accepting their offer.”

She half expects him to throw his arms around her, kiss her breathless, some other wild form of spontaneous affection, but he merely slips his phone in his pocket and cocks his head to the side, listening.

Emma does the same.

“Is this the Armageddon song?” Emma says. She scrunches her face, cringing. “I think this DJ might be terrible.”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Want to dance?”

“To the Armageddon song?”

“I don’t think that’s the name, and I’m certain you actually know the title.”

“That’s libel,” Emma says. “Slander.”

“Sue me,” Killian says. He drags her against him, wrapping his arms around her. Placing a kiss on top of her head, he says, “But after you dance with me.”

“This DJ is still terrible,” Emma says as she sways with him.

Killian hums his agreement.

“It’s called, ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,’” Emma mumbles.

Killian chuckles, holding her closer. Emma sighs and he echoes the sound.

“Fitting don’t you think?”

“Please,” Emma says, not sure if she’s begging him to not say stupid, sappy things like that, or whether it’s because her eyes suddenly feel wet and she doesn’t want to think about how happy she is - and how sad, too.

(Sue her, Aerosmith, she doesn’t want to miss a thing and she’s going to miss this, in just a few months, she’s going to miss this so much her chest will ache with it.)

Emma doesn’t want to think of any of that, except for the weight of his arms around her. She told Killian once, to keep his undying love to himself, but she’s grateful for it now, for his soft, “As you wish” – and she won’t think of anything but that, nothing but the weight of his arms and the gentle way he sways her to the beat.


	17. OUTTAKE#1; If Ruby Had Been in the 'Never Have I Ever' Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate take on the "Never Have I Ever" scene from chapter 5 as requested by @swanscaptn

> _“With that said,” Elsa says. “Never have I ever been brave enough to ask someone out.”_
> 
> _Emma could cheer for another one she doesn’t have to drink. This is easier than Emma thought it would be three questions back. Marian and Tink are the ones to suffer this time, Marian in silence and Tink with a vicious shake of her head._
> 
> _“I asked Robin out,” Marian says. “You, Tink?”_
> 
> _Tink blushes. “I asked Killian out.”_
> 
> _Emma doesn’t perk up, but she does nearly knock over her glass._
> 
> _Belle coughs and says, “Oh, yeah, he told me you two were…”_
> 
> _“Are friends.” She giggles, shaking her head in memory. “It only took two dates for me to realize that he’s not my type.”_
> 
> _“What is your type?” Emma asks._

She has a huge mouth, Ruby knows this. It’s a character flaw - sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean to say, and she hates knowing that she’s hurt someone with a careless word when she of all people has felt that sting for days, for months, and _years_ , the words pulling at her until she’s bitten her nails down to the quick just trying to get them out of her head.

But it’s also a strength because while she’s running off her mouth, no one else is hearing a thing. She also may not hear anything over her own voice, but she still has her eyes and can still catch the scent of something off.

More off than Marian panicking over not getting into school when she’s _so_ brilliant, so kind and wonderful and the kind of person Ruby wishes she was sometimes. She kind of wishes she was all her friends depending on the time of the day; it makes her a better person, seeing in them what she aspires to be, emulating it and all that.

More off than Elsa getting high (unintentionally, it doesn’t matter, Elsa was high as a kite and Ruby wasn’t there to see it and life isn’t fair.) And then there’s the Emma being interested in Tink’s “type” - and Tink not taking it as the come-on it so obviously is; Ruby would’ve at least _flirted_.

“Never have I ever turned down such a perfect opportunity to flirt,” Ruby says - running off her big mouth because more off than everything is the way that Emma sighs and looks _relieved_ , and it gives her a chance to watch how Emma plays with the rim of her full glass, a chance to say, “Yes, you have to drink, Tink. And you too, Emma,” because Emma’s turned down Killian’s every overture since he started making them.

Or she did.

Ruby near topples her glass with the realization - good thing that it’s empty because Mrs. French cares about her carpeting, and she’d hate to have to scrub it out when she should be taking care of _this_. Emma downs the drink after a moment, but it’s a moment too long. Ruby knows.

She has a huge mouth. It’s time to put it to use.

“Your turn, Emma,” Elsa prompts, having set her glass down, too, no doubt because of the time Emma leaned in close in math class and said, “Can I borrow your mind like forever? Or better yet, can I borrow all of you?”

Ruby had told her later she should’ve said, “Yes. Anytime you want,” but Elsa had been too horrified by Ruby’s words to revisit the question.

“Never have I ever…”

Emma glances at Ruby.

Ruby would tackle her about this, but she needs to know the extent of it. Keep her mouth on track and her hands to herself until she knows how much Emma hasn’t kept _hers_ to herself with that asshole.

Damn that Killian Jones.

“Never have I ever…”

“Emma, come on, there’s a million things you haven’t done. Anal beads?” Marian suggests before Ruby can jump in with a more confrontational suggestion.

Leave it to Marian to be a mediator without realizing it.

“Oh my god, what is with you and Ruby? Never have I ever used anal beads,” Emma grumbles.

Ruby laughs genuinely. Okay, so that’s one thing off that damn list she hasn’t done with him, and it isn’t like Emma would ever. Not after that conversation with her mother. It’s completely soured Ruby on the idea as well.

“Would anyone admit to that? Would anyone do that?” Elsa asks.

“You’d be surprised,” Emma says sadly.

“That sounds like a story I’m not drunk enough for,” Elsa says.

She’s drunker than a skunk as Granny would say (if only she knew what they were up to), but it’s true that Elsa isn’t drunk enough for that.

“Never have I ever used any sex toys,” Belle says. “To cover all the bases.”

Ruby distracts herself for a second with looking at Belle, and then gets distracted _looking_ at Belle. They’ll have to correct that sooner or later because as Tink says, while Ruby’s downing her own glass and eyeing her girlfriend, “Ladies, vibrators are you friend.”

“I trust your judgment on that one,” Marian says. She laughs and looking around at their circle, says, “I think it’s over. The panic attack, I mean, so if you want to quit…”

“Let’s continue,” Elsa says, while Ruby exclaims, “We’re _not_ quitting.”

Marian’s smile is bewildered but she nods at Ruby and says, “Okay, okay, calm down. Never have I ever gone down on anyone, regardless of gender.”

Emma bites her lip and she goes so still that Ruby wants to scream. She gave Killian a blowjob. How unbelievably horrible. Ruby swallows her drink, not sure if the burn is because it’s alcohol or because she’s seething with rage.

The utter betrayal. The utter grossness.

The fact that Emma hasn’t just _told_ her.

She sets her glass down, the tightness in her face softening. The utter unfairness of it all. That Emma would think she couldn’t tell Ruby.

“Is it me?” is a question that hovers on Ruby’s tongue - _Never have I ever felt like a bigger ass than I do right now_ because Emma skips the drink and looks guilty about it. Ruby knows that guilt in her eyes, sees it when Tink says, “So, never have I ever been gone down on,” and Emma sits back, twisting her bracelet around her wrist, a nervous gesture that she’s had since they were little, before Ruby gave her that friendship bracelet even, when all she had was a shoelace from the first pair of shoes her mother bought her.

For Emma’s sake, Ruby takes her drink quickly and while Elsa picks up her glass, she claps her hand to her face and lets her mouth go off, saying, “Details, Elsa. You can’t just drop something like that and not give _details._ ”

Emma grabs for the pretzels while Ruby lifts her eyebrows at Elsa who’s turning a brilliant shade of red. Elsa mumbles an embarrassed, “I’m sure you don’t want the details, Ruby. It’s rather private and perhaps...perhaps what happens in Switzerland, stays in Switzerland.”

“We’re going to have to switch to water soon,” Emma comments between a mouthful of pretzels.

Ruby looks at the bottle. There’s still a good amount in there.

Marian reaches for the last of the bottle and nods. “We should cut Ruby off, you’re right,” Marian agrees with an apologetic shrug in her direction.

Ruby takes no offense. It’s true, she’s probably had more drinks than the rest of them, although Emma could have been, if she was honest...but it’s obvious she doesn’t feel like she can be.

 _Is it me_? Ruby wants to ask again, but stops herself just short of it when Elsa says, “I guess it’s my time to torment. Never have I ever had intercourse. Like penetration, I mean.”

There’s her answer, in the pleading glance Emma shoots Ruby’s way, the fumble of her hands around her glass.

“Scientific,” Tink remarks.

Ruby opens her mouth. “I had to warn Ashley about avoiding _that_ area of the chem lab, you know ‘The One.’”

Marian sputters on her drink, while Belle elbows her in the side and says, “You told her? You didn’t tell me you told her.”

“You wouldn’t approve,” Ruby says.

“Of course I don’t approve, no one should have to hear about doggy style in the chem lab and how you nearly gave Archie a heart attack. He still hasn’t recovered.”

Marian laughs loudly, but Ruby still calls her out, and says, “At least my story is _interesting_. What about yours?”

“My story is that I made a huge mistake, but I’ve forgiven myself and you all should -” She draws her eyes from one to the other, narrowing them when she finally meets Ruby’s gaze again, “Should stop looking at me like that and forgive me too.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Ruby protests.

“Oh shit. Fuck,” Emma curses softly and Ruby turns to see the glass on the floor and the liquor spilled out of it. Emma stares at the growing puddle on the carpet as if it’ll go away through power of glaring alone.

“I’ve got this,” Ruby says.

Emma jerks her head up, surprised, and Ruby nods at her until Emma’s shoulders sag – only to rise again when Belle crawls towards her.

“Water, Emma. We’re getting you some water.”

Tink snorts. “I guess that’s the end of that.”

“Thank god, I did not want to hear about the easy access of skirts again. Or the birthmark on Jefferson’s inner thigh that looks like the bat signal,” Elsa says.

Ruby turns betrayed eyes on her. Elsa’s usually too polite to deny Ruby the opportunity to horrify her.

“I swear it does,” Ruby protests.

But it’s all for show, as is the way Emma smiles at her and says, “If I say we believe you, will you stop?”

Ruby keeps her mouth shut this time, staring at Emma until she crumbles under the look. She crawls close enough to tap Emma on the shoulder and say, “Belle’s going to give you the pitcher, you know. You’ll be peeing all night.”

“Well, I’m excited,” Emma says softly.

“I know.”

She rubs at Emma’s shoulder but she jerks out from under Ruby’s grip and stands, saying, “I need to pee,” and makes her escape to the bathroom.

-

They fall asleep watching North & South, and while everyone’s snoring, even Belle who finally gave up staying awake after “Look back at me,” Emma gets up and heads to the bathroom. Ruby listens for it, just to make sure Emma comes back alright but when Emma’s footsteps echo towards the kitchen instead of back to the living room, Ruby gets up and steps quietly around their sleeping friends and follows her.

Emma’s closing the refrigerator door when Ruby enters the kitchen, and she doesn’t look surprised as she turns around. It is fear that flashes in her eyes and nearly makes her drop her cold cupcake.

“Late night, munchies?” Ruby teases.

She crosses the room and opens the fridge, grabbing herself a cupcake as well. Emma doesn’t say anything but when Ruby doesn’t say anything either, she relaxes back against the counter and starts to peel away at the cupcake liner.

“You never went to sleep, did you?” Emma asks when her cupcake is fully peeled.

“No.”

Ruby stares at her, knowing that Emma isn’t going to say what should be said. They’ve spent too much time _not_ talking about it that Ruby isn’t even sure whether Emma can talk about it.

Still she gives her the chance and says, “Belle wants to have Killian at Regina’s visit on Thursday. She wanted to ask you about it.”

Emma’s gaze searches Ruby’s face, and she says, “Why me?”

“Because you’ve always been the more reasonable one about him. Me? I’m a fire-breathing rage monster every time I think about him.”

“Every time?” Emma asks quietly.

Ruby pauses while Emma stares at her cupcake and after a moment, sets it down on the counter.

Finally, she goes on, “Belle knew nothing about Gold, you know. I always thought he was creepy, but he was nice to Belle so I didn’t say anything. I should’ve trusted my instincts; they’re always right.” Ruby takes a breath. “When I saw Killian headed towards Gold’s office, I thought something was up, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t stop him.”

“You couldn’t know what he would do,” Emma says. “I mean, what did he do?”

They spent so long _not_ talking about it that Ruby’s surprised that she would even venture to ask, but should she be now? Never did Ruby ever think that Emma would be with Killian. Maybe she should adjust her thoughts on this, too.

“He knew about Gold. Belle told me that when she caught him breaking into Gold’s office, he asked her to help him find Gold’s ex-wife, Milah’s number. You remember Milah.”

Emma acknowledges the statement with a glance at her hands, at her stiffly curled fists.

“What exactly happened with Killian?” Emma asks.

There’s an edge of desperation in her voice. It makes Ruby’s stomach hurt, especially as she spells it out, “He begged Belle to help him, and of course, she had no idea what was going on. How could she help him when she didn’t know he even needed help? So, she told him she wouldn’t and was about to call for Gold when Gold and Regina entered and Killian figured out the easiest way out of the situation was to drag Belle down with him, said some nonsense about them ‘not doing this anymore,’ and kissed her in front of Regina and Gold.”

“Regina hates Belle for _that_? She must know the truth now. She has to. Why the hell is she holding some kind of grudge against Belle? Against Killian?”

“You think that she cares about the truth? All she cares about are her dumb rules. Consider how hard your mom had to fight for the sex drive. Regina doesn’t care. Killian broke into the office. Belle helped him by “being there,” like the only reason it’s not on her record is because of your mom.”

“And the only reason Killian wasn’t arrested is because of my dad. Funny how these things work,” Emma says.

She isn’t laughing though. She’s contemplative instead, staring just past Ruby.

“Belle should have him there, just to fucking rub Regina’s nose in it. She deserves it, and it’s not like she can say anything if Belle and Killian are completely professional. He seems professional when he’s around her.” Emma pauses, grows quiet again. After a moment she says, “You said you should’ve trusted your instincts. What do your instincts tell you about Killian now?”

“That’s where it’s weird because my heart tells me to hate him, but my instincts say that he isn’t - He isn’t the worst. You know, sometimes, I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. Like one of these days, I’m inevitably going to fall for him.”

Emma giggles, a raw edge to this, too. “Are you even awake right now? Sounds like something a nightmare Ruby would say.”

“Right?” Ruby agrees.

They go quiet again, and Ruby’s watching Emma so intently that it doesn’t take a second for her to wrap her arms around her when she sees the first tear fall from Emma’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Emma’s already saying like she has anything to apologize for.

The utter unfairness of it all, that Emma’s murmuring apologies into Ruby’s shoulder and she can’t do anything to make her feel better, like she couldn’t do it before when the bastard disappeared without a trace and then popped back in the worst way possible. Or maybe, she’s just not doing enough, like she _didn’t_ do anything when she saw Killian racing down the hall, or when Emma told her she loved Neal with that quake in her voice like she was scared, like love should ever make her feel scared -

“Thank you,” Emma says.

Ruby holds her just a little tighter. “For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“For not doing anything. For not hating me,” Emma says.

Ruby draws back at that, enough to keep her hands on Emma’s shoulders and stare into her still wet eyes, and say, “I could never hate you. Except that one time you lost my Right Said Fred CD. I came pretty close.”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Always,” Ruby replies.

Emma smiles small and devious. “I threw it in the harbor.”

“I knew it!” Ruby shouts, and wakes everyone up with her big mouth, a groan of “Dammit, Ruby,” echoed by sleepy moans.

Getting surrounded by tired, grumpy girls all leaning on each other and eating the last of the cold cupcakes makes Emma smile, and that’s worth the glares and punches, even when Belle pulls her hair with icing covered fingers because then Ruby can whisper in her ear, “Bring Killian.”

“Really?” Belle breathes in surprise.

“My instincts are saying it’ll be worth it.”

“For the look on her face, right?” Belle asks on a laugh.

Ruby glances at Emma, sees her face brighten and soften all at the same time as Tink tries to steal her cupcake, and says, “Yeah. For the look on her face.”


	18. OUTTAKE #2;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An outtake no one asked for, tbh, but like a what if situation that popped into my head and wouldn't let go.

There’s a heat simmering in her belly - and she’s not a pot on the stove, bad metaphor, but it’s building in her and she can’t seem to focus on the English passage she’s supposed to be analyzing when Killian’s right beside her, actually able to focus on it.

His forehead is wrinkled in concentration and every few minutes, he pauses between neatly written analyses to flip back to the first page of passage, taking his highlighter from between his teeth to highlight yet another word to “break down.”

It’s unfair, that, because honestly, fuck the contextual meaning of “tell” and its contrast with the subtext of its usage in this particular sentence, Emma’s the one that really needs the breaking down.

The yellow highlighter is poking out of his mouth again and Emma smiles slightly at the look of it, her tongue going out of its own accord to moisten her lips, and it occurs to her that this is a thought process that’s going to lead nowhere productive, but it also occurs to her that Killian’s almost reached the bottom of the page, hers is mostly blank, and this is a Saturday, the first free one either of them has had in weeks to just sit in each other’s company.

Emma wants to do more than sit though; she wants to bask.

She draws up closer to him, taps him gently on the arm so he turns to her. His eyebrow lifts in question, words held back by the highlighter still in his mouth.

“Can I borrow that?” she asks.

He nudges upwards and she takes the hint, grabbing it from his mouth. A beat passes where he just stares at her and she stares back, twirling the wet highlighter between her fingers.

“Sorry,” he says, at that. “Bad habit.”

“Something we have in common,” Emma says.

She slides the highlighter into her mouth too, taking her sweet time with sliding it free from its cap, and his breath goes shallow. She doesn’t see him swallow but knows he is because he’s predictable in that way, and she’s not exactly being subtle about what she wants.

What she needs.

“Emma,” he warns, but she can’t say anything to defend herself, highlighter still in her mouth until finally it pops, cap between her teeth. She sucks just light enough that the cap slides inside oh so slowly, giving him a chance to stop her and back out if he wants.

Killian always seems to go all in, though and this is no different because he says, easy smile unfurling, “We never seem to make it through these study sessions.”

She grins, pushing out the cap so she can close the highlighter again and says, “There was that one time. The Scarlet Letter and Jane Eyre.”

“As I recall…” She’s sure he’s starting to mention how that study session ended with her riding him, but he must remember that it’s how it ended, _post-_ actual studying because he clears his throat and finishes, “That was a good day.”

“Let’s make today a good day, too?” she suggests.

Lifting her books from her lap, she makes for his. The move isn’t intentional, but still her knuckles brush against him and he groans, hips bucking towards her involuntarily. The bulge in his sweats isn’t really that noticeable, not until she drops the books to the floor in a messy pile that he’ll complain about later, maybe; lately he doesn’t seem to care as much. Practices are going on longer, now that Haven’s looking at him to join their team, and he’s been studying more, wants those 5’s on all his AP’s to prove what Emma already knows, he’s worth their consideration, their time and more.

He’s worth a lot more than he gives himself credit for.

She smiles at him as she climbs into his lap, settling with her knees bent to either side of him. It’s the perfect position to grind into him, with his arm coming up around her but he lets his other hand rise to cup her cheek and she turns into the pressure of his warm palm.

This time he’s the one that takes his sweet time, caressing her cheek with his thumb before he finally presses forward, foreheads touching, nose nuzzling hers, eyes closing to the first touch of his lips in days. Cheek and forehead kisses are nice, but she missed this more than anything.

She moans into the kiss and he pauses, hand fisting into the back of her shirt and pulling it free from her skirt. She tries to push back into the kiss but he says, “I’m going to make today better than good.”

“Great, even?” she laughs.

“Perfect,” he corrects. He kisses her again, just a quick brush of his lips before he says, “Let’s start by getting you out of all this.”

“Want to taste you,” she moans, ignoring his directive.

She leans forward, sucking on his bottom lip again, her hips rolling a little bit desperately against his hard length.

“You sound like me,” he laughs, hot air fanning from his hiccupping chuckles and only making her that much more desperate.

“Great minds.”

“Yea.” He reaches up and twirls a lock of her hair between his fingers as his forehead meets hers. With another quiet groan, he says, “Beautiful mind. You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says.

“I know a compliment when I hear it, Swan.” He chuckles lightly, releases her hair to slide both hands along the plane of her back. “Thank you,” he says like it’s for more than just that.

She’s caught by how much she loves him for a second, can’t move until he looks at her, open curiosity in his gaze. Smiling at him slightly, she says, “You’re welcome,” knowing it’s more than just that.

Knows it sounds just like “I love you,” when she says it.

She moves against him and he tosses his head back, eyes closed. When they open again he says, “Clothes, Emma.”

Emma nods and lets him help her strip of her shirt and her bra, taking advantage of any small moment to grind down, feel him against her swollen mound. There’s too many clothes separating them but once he’s free of her shirt, he makes quick work of that, nearly throwing her to the bed so he can strip out of his t-shirt and pants, she can wiggle out of her skirt and -

“Keep the socks on?” he asks, tentatively.

She does, the white thigh highs rolling down despite her best efforts at rolling them back up but he doesn’t seem to mind as he runs his fingers up over the fabric and to the bared skin, her thighs, her hips, underneath to cup the round globes of her ass.

She stares at his cock, as it hangs between his legs and _wants_ , so she says, “Wait. Get on your back.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Mutual enjoyment,” she explains and he ah’s at that.

They shift and move about each other, getting distracted each time their skin touches, heat blooming where his fingers brush, where his hip meets hers, leg brushing over his arm, and she kisses every inch of skin that comes into her view until, eventually, Killian’s on his back and Emma rises above him.

She’s almost embarrassed at how needy she is until his whispered, “Wow,” makes her turn crimson.

“You were soaking your underwear, weren’t you?” he says, wrapping his hands around her hip in a good grip so he can pull her down to his mouth. To shut him up before he goes any further, she wraps her hand around the base of his cock and leads him towards her mouth as well.

Still, he keeps speaking.

“Bloody hell, Emma, you’re so needy.”

The first swipe of his tongue takes her off guard, but at least she can say the same for him because when she licks away the salt of his pre-cum, he groans into her, forced to come up for air.

She takes advantage, licking over the smooth head a couple of times before taking him into her mouth, sucking hard.

“There’s a good girl,” he says, a strained sound uttered between his teeth.

Emma sucks just a bit harder - his breath goes light, little pants against her, making her inch that much closer to his face - “So good. I’m going to make you feel good, alright?”

She nods and bobs her head back and forth, only light sucking now, letting him thrust up into her mouth as his settles over where she’s dripping for him. Killian licks a long stripe up her, breathing hard when he comes up for air, and says, “Always such a good girl for me, letting me have my fill of you.”

His mouth settles on her once again, tongue dipping between her folds and curling inside her in a motion that isn’t fluid, but doesn’t need to be anyway, he could do anything to her with his tongue and Emma would arch as desperately as she does because he pulls back once again, only to say, “Can never get enough of you. Is that what you want, sweetheart? Want me like this, always so desperate for the taste of you? All I can think about.”

He noses between her folds again and she nearly forgets to take a breath when his tongue slides forward, this time catching her clit.

Emma sucks hard on him because he makes her like _this_. Killian’s hot and hard in her mouth, and he’s pumping even more now. She knows he can’t stop himself, as much as she can’t stop herself from moaning around him, letting him slip just a little deeper. It’s still a struggle, her gag reflex rearing up every time he gets closer to her throat but she keeps swallowing and eventually -

It’s not the best feeling in the world, but his words, stuttered out against her, “Sweetheart, please - don’t stop. _Good_ girl,” and his hands tight on her hips, is enough to make her take him as deep as he can go, just enough that when she backs up for air, tears prickling in her eyes from the lack of it, she whines hotly as his mouth falls on her again.

“Emma, love, what’s your favorite letter of the alphabet?”

His tongue starts curving over her clit, lazy patterns that make her jump and then - she keens pressing against the probing muscle.

“I’m a little disappointed that it isn’t K -”

She licks at him at that, a pointed remark that she can’t exactly make when her head is swimming and her lungs are too occupied with still catching her breath for her to form proper words.

“G isn’t a bad letter, however,”

“G for good girl, perhaps?” he murmurs, and starts to lave her clit in those same lazy strokes.

She keeps licking at him, doesn’t stop until she reaches where he’s leaking, too, thick droplets sliding down where he’s red and straining, doesn’t stop until the pressure snaps and she pushes back against him, chasing the high of her orgasm.

Emma almost feels bad about that until he presses a kiss to where she’s sopping wet, and says, “I don’t want to come just yet, please?”

“Okay, okay,” she allows him, climbing from atop him on shaky legs.

He’s almost immediately atop her, pushing her onto her back. He pulls at her hair and she squirms again - “Know how much you like that, sweetheart” - glaring at the amusement in his tone.

Killian moves between her legs, so she spreads a little wider to accommodate him. He smiles at that, gently pulling his hand from her hair. He leans down to kiss her. She sighs into it happily, _unhappily_ when he draws back to kiss at her neck, sucking hickeys into her skin - “It’s been too long” - and making her even more annoyed, though she giggles, too, happy as his hands caress her from back to belly, hips to ass.

He leaves a trail of pleasure everywhere he touches, leading to the same place, his hands cupping the round swell of her breasts, testing the weight of them, massaging them gently before catching her gaze as he wraps his mouth around her nipple and suckles it..

Her breasts don’t usually feel so heavy and sensitive, but it must be the heat of him making the pressure almost painful. She tugs at his head and he lifts up, nipple popping free of his mouth.

“Gentler?” Emma says.

He looks confused, brow furrowing at that, but when she releases her hold and he dips his head again, the pressure is lighter, his tongue merely brushing over each nipple in turn. Killian doesn’t pull them back into his mouth, just keeps kissing around them, drawing pleasurable sparks that alight in her belly, sweeping the fire higher as his tongue sweeps lower, leaving her breasts behind for her freckled belly.

“Can I?”

He looks up at her beneath his dark lashes, his blue eyes dancing with a playful heat, even, and she squirms just a bit, eager and says, “Please, I really need to be fucked right now.”

“You’ve a way with words, darling,” he says affectionately enough that she manages to hold her annoyance at bay. She pulls at his shoulders until he rises and leans over her, cock bobbing between his legs, still so hard and flushed so red, and she sees a droplet of pre-cum at the tip that she’d love to lick up only he pulls back up, condom in hand. Carefully he tears it open, and announces, “Last one.”

He looks at her hungrily at that before focusing on rolling the condom down his cock. There’s something that makes her squirm at the motion, at how slowly he sheathes himself in it - the same way he does when he folds himself against her, propped up on one elbow as he sinks into her. His whole body presses against her, chest to chest and it’s a lot of uncomfortable pressure on her, but he soothes it with each gentle thrust.

Killian’s lips seek hers and she rolls against him when he kisses her deeply, tongue moving against hers with the same pressure. As he picks up speed, fucking into her, his thrusts pushing her hips into the mattress, she starts to pant, chest heaving against his.

She nudges against him, his mouth pulling away and their eyes meet for a split second before she closes hers to the scrunch in his brow, the gritting of his teeth, and starts to roll her hips to meet him, likes how deep he goes when she does that, when she has him almost grinding against her clit, so deep that she -

There’s a snap of his hips and then a popping noise, and Emma groans mournfully as he pulls away.

“What happened?” she asks, trying to push through the fog of desire.

The bite in Killian’s reply nearly takes her aback until his words process, “Condom broke.”

“That was the last one,” she points out.

An unhelpful remark and she groans again when he draws himself all the way out of her, fumbling for the torn condom.

“Is it all there?” Emma asks.

She watches as he checks and nods.

“There’s one good thing. We don’t have to fish rubber out of me.”

“One good thing,” he agrees.

He tosses aside the broken condom, an act that draws Emma’s attention. The focus shifts almost immediately when he falls forward again, nuzzling into the crook of her neck and his cock rubbing against her thigh, so hard and not nearly wet enough - if the condom was that dry…

Emma rides against his thigh, a trail of wetness making the motion easier, and only making this harder as she moans, “This is your fault.” She shifts slightly, leaving his thigh behind because that isn’t going to help.  “I offered to show you how to use a condom.”

Only, he pushes between her closed thighs, cock head nudging up between her folds and pressing against her clit. He fucks against her, his words as stuttered as his movements,  “How is this my fault - and I know how to use a condom.”

“You must have had it too tight, not enough space in the tip, and it was too dry. Should’ve added lube,” Emma explains as best she can.

Killian nods once (because what’s the point in arguing with her; she’s the expert), the second time when she finds his bicep and digs her fingers in. He presses his forehead against her, mouth moving eagerly over her cheeks, like he just can’t find her lips.

“Fuck,” he curses, drawing back to look at her, eyes dark with his need.

“Yeah, well” - Her voice shakes -”We can’t do that.”

He narrows his eyes and reaches between her legs. They fall open for him - she’s always so eager - and his finger strokes follow the path of his cock. Teasing at her slick flesh, he asks, “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m very mad,” Emma says dazedly as he shifts so his cock is pressed at the space between her thigh instead.

“I want you,” he groans against her, humping lightly.

“Killian,” she says.

She pushes her hand between them, too, pulling him away from the crease of her thigh and back to her. His hand moves away and she’s just going to hold him there, grind against him until they both come, but her mouth runs away from her as she rocks into his length.

“Remember the first time when we just -”

He brushes his fingers through her hair, almost gentle, as he says, “Emma, shush -” but it turns into a whimper as she draws him downwards from her clit all the way to where she needs him most, and his hand fists tightly in her hair, pulling hard. “ _Emma_.”

“Sorry, I thought that was fair warning?”

He pushes in slowly, his eyes searching her face. She arches up, meeting the thrust and wraps her legs around him, knees high and heels digging into his lower back.

“Fair warning, eh?”

He picks up the pace, stoking the heat in her belly, no longer a simmer anymore but ready to boil over into hot and blinding pleasure. It takes him all but a moment to fall apart, slamming into her, so deep that it rocks the bed. It takes her all but a moment to fall with him, legs slipping down his sides, too slick with sweat and trembling too much to stay up so he draws back, hooks them over his arms, pulling her practically off the bed so he can keep fucking into her.

She knows he can’t keep up this pace but god it feels so good that the words spill from her mouth, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, feels so good.”

Emma cries out as she comes. He follows soon after, the punch of his hips into hers erratic until he’s grunting, no other words as he comes, pushing as deep inside her as he can.

He releases her legs and it burns as they settle down beside him, burns slightly as he pulls out, but not uncomfortable. Killian rolls her over, careful not to fall atop her as always, so they lie side by side as they catch their breaths and the chill of cold sweat starts to come down on her, the trickle of his cum out of her making her squint her face.

“Sorry,” he says, guessing her wince.

“We should shower this time, yeah,” she says.

He pulls her forward until she’s pressed up against him and agrees, “Yea.” It’s quiet for a moment and she’s about to kiss him again when he says, “I tried, but alas, I couldn’t give you perfect.”

Emma snuggles close to him. Sometimes he can be really stupid, she thinks, and says, “I don’t need your apology. I really just need a shower and a kiss.”

“A kiss?” he asks, voice soft. He leans in, nudging his nose against hers. “Just the one?” he breathes out.

“Start with one and we can work our way to two,” she says.

He kisses her once, slow and languid, twice, just a little faster, and the third time, she starts to rock against him, craving him again, but she doesn’t say that -

Doesn’t have to because Killian reaches between her legs, stroking over her wet skin. Heat sparks again, so she tries to be smart about it, says, “We can do this in the shower?” He nods at that, one last gentle caress to her clit before sliding his fingers away from her.

She turns and is about to struggle out of bed when he says, “Emma? Are you hurt?”

She frowns at that, turning into him again. His eyes are wide and searching and she goes, “No?” confused, until he lifts his fingers before her and she sees.

It isn’t a lot of blood but -

But her breasts ache and she’s been feeling needy all week, and _fuck_. “The condom broke and I have my period, this is so fucked up.”

She can’t get comfortable after that, and despite his soft assurances that it’s fine, he doesn’t care, she showers alone and leaves soon after, feeling the start of cramps in her belly anyway and a period migraine building in the back of her head.

-

It’s a week later of barely there cheek kisses in the hall and clipped text messages between classes and studying that Killian invites her over. She goes with slight trepidation rolling in her belly like the most painful of cramps. Her period is days over, but still as she takes her seat down onto his bed and Killian pulls her close to him to whisper against her neck, “I want to taste you, Emma,” she just shakes her head and says, “Yeah, well. Homework?”

He frowns at her at that, but he accedes to her wishes. They make it through French, English, and she doesn’t really have anything left to study for after that, but she watches him as he does. He looks up at her eventually, a wrinkle between his brows, and says, “You’re still upset.”

“I could have bled in your mouth,” Emma says because she literally doesn’t understand. “Or on your dick. What isn’t upsetting about that?” Frustrated she snaps, “Why aren’t you upset?”

“That is something that could’ve happened, but it didn’t Emma, and do you seriously think I’d be mad at you for that? Don’t you have any faith in me at all?”

She falters at that.

“It’s just... _gross_ ,” she says half-heartedly, because the rest of her heart strains at the disappointment on his face.

And yet he goes to comfort her, dropping his books to the floor again so he can wrap his arms around her. “It’s natural,” he says. He grins, just a little shy and adds, “As is this, the fact that I miss tasting you when you come.”

“You literally cannot miss that,” Emma protests. “It’s only been a week.”

“Trust me, I can. I always miss not being with you,” he says. He shakes his head lightly, kisses her shoulder, and admits, “These past few weeks have been hard.”

She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, but still her voice breaks as she says, “I missed you, too.”

It’s dumb - does she have any faith in him at all - because she wants to cry at the sincerity of his words, the gentle kiss to her shoulder and the softness of his follow up, “I can wait until you’re comfortable again.”

“I’m always comfortable with you,” she replies – easily. This past week had been hard, but this, this is always easy. She laughs, slightly, and turns into him. He lifts his head from her shoulder as she says, “Want to have sex?”

He grins, heaving a dramatic sigh, “Bloody hell, Emma, I thought you’d never ask.”


	19. The Worst is Over: Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma hates when people leave especially when it’s for the best. All Killian wants to do is stay because they, _they_ are the best thing that’s ever happened to him. For them, leaving and being left behind is the worst, but sometimes the worst is what’s best, and all they want - 
> 
> All they will ever want is the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised this ages ago, i know, but finally, FINALLY, here is the first part of the sequel entitled "The Worst is Over." To make it easier for those who were looking out for it, I'm just adding it to WICGST so this is Post-WICGST and not one of the missing/requested scenes that I've posted before. Anyway, past the technical, to the actual author's note, I want to say that I'm sorry in advance, and also thank @blondecrowns for this - both her initial unintentional push and her encouragement for the actual writing. I plan for this sequel to have at least 6 chapters, saying at least because depending on the word count of each planned chapter, it may stretch into more. As always I want to thank all of you for enjoying WICGST and I hope you enjoy this as well

Emma notices her breathing now.

She’s too aware that she needs to inhale, then exhale, inhale, then exhale over and over again. Breathing is ceaseless, _constant_ , and Emma needs a constant that she can rely on right now, because the others are on planes to places she can’t drive to without risking horror movie country.

Ruby has referred to the Midwest as that for years now, listing movie after movie that proves her point. Emma’s ignored her because to indulge would be to admit that her hatred of horror movies verges more on fear. The endless teasing would bring Emma’s death faster than the swing of an axe murderer.

Her friends insist that they aren’t going to be _that_ far away: there’s texting, twitter, insta, snaps, skype, and “oh my god, Emma, I read about this company trying to build like these long distance dating robots that simulate the touch of the person they’re connected to, so like if they reach to stroke your forehead, the robot will stroke your forehead” - “And if they reach to stroke somewhere else?” - “We’re not getting sex-bots, Ruby. That’s how you bring about the robot apocalypse.”

Yet, Marian’s only been at Carleton three days, and she’s already thinking about participating in a research project over the holidays. She’ll just have to prove herself to the professor who runs it, which should be easy because she has two classes with her, and she seems tough but fair, according to ratemyteacher, but Marian will just have to gauge this for herself.

Ruby and Belle are _so_ far away. There’s whole countries between them - literally if you measure it by distance because the US is just that huge - and California is so different from what they’re used to. Ruby swears she’s never seen so much sunshine in her life, and she has _Belle_.

She has Belle, and Belle has her, and it’s going to be hard for them to manage anything beyond that. They’ll cling to each other because they’re the only ones who _know_ them, and they’re already in some kind of symbiotic relationship (Ruby is _not_ a parasite, and Emma is a terrible best friend.) They’re going to spend time going out together, enjoying their freedom - especially Ruby who is _so_ ready for freedom that she’s already planned out some sights to see and places to get horribly lost in. Emma will get the texts, snaps, and see their Instagram posts and tweets, sure, but the calls will be few and far between, not because they don’t want to see or talk to Emma, but because life calls them away.

Emma doesn’t begrudge them this, but Ruby has been her constant nearly her whole life, and that emptiness is going to be hard to fill. Impossible, even, because no one can replace Ruby, and should they try it’ll be a duel at dawn, throw down between Ruby and the interloper.

For there can be only one -

Emma leans back against the open car door and huffs a tired breath - a longer exhale followed by a short inhale, short breaths until they steady again. She isn’t sure how Killian’s container of clothes even fit in her car, and she sure as hell has no idea how it’s going to come out of it, and she sure as _fuck_ doesn’t really care when heaving it means wasting precious moments where she could work this out into something approaching a decent goodbye and not her lingering by the bug while he talks with his floor’s RA.

She’s come to realize over the past few weeks that she really, _really_ doesn't know how to say goodbye. Not in the “doesn’t know how to not stumble over her words and end up crying on Ruby’s shoulder” way of Ashley or the “making Marian swear she’ll skype as often as she can” way of Ruby, but in the way her stomach keeps dropping with each passing second, with each constant taken away to brighter horizons, and soon her stomach is going to be at her feet.

She can’t seem to move her feet towards the entrance to his dorm.

It’s just -

When they parked, neither of them moved for a beat. He was still shooting off details about Haven that she already knew, and Emma patted him on the arm and said, “I took the tour, _and_ you told me this already. Twice, I think. I don’t know. I’ve been tuning you out.”

He’d loosened his seatbelt just so he had better access at her sides to tickle her into weeping laughter -

She’s losing his easy touches. She’ll have no one to hold her hand, brush their nose across her cheek, press their thighs between hers, and hold her afterwards when it’s too hot to be held but he’s already snoring, so she makes the best of it, the way that she can because he’s the best of it, the best of everything if she’s being cheesy, over the top, _honest_.

She’d dragged herself away before the weeping laughter became just weeping.

She turns and struggles with the stubborn container, cursing, perhaps too loudly because she hears a disdainful cough behind her. There are whole families here helping their freshmen move in - mother, father, sister, brother, third cousin twice removed - so she should try to keep her frustration PG. Having her parents around would’ve been a good filter. They’d offered, but Emma wanted to see Killian off alone so she could spend as much time with him as possible. Her parents are well-meaning busybodies, so she’d barely get any time with him if they were here, being themselves.

Emma continues to fight. It’s a hot day, which isn’t helping. Her forehead feels red and sweaty, not a great combination, especially with her current mood: utter misery.

She must look utterly miserable, too, because Killian comes up behind her, hushes her protest softly. He presses into her, placing a kiss to the tip of her ear. He doesn’t move to help her with the container, just stares at her until she turns into him.

She can’t quite meet his eyes.

“Stop frowning so much, your face will set that way, love,” he says.

He reaches over and cups her cheek while Emma reminds him, “You said you’d love me anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall.”

She really wishes she could smile at his joke but her stomach sinks even further, and it might not be her stomach at all because there's an ache in her chest like her heart is vacating it.

“Well it was implied, wasn’t it?” she snaps.

He tilts her chin up, thumb pressed into the dimple there to lead her eyes to his. His expression is soft as he says, “That it was."

He lays another kiss on her cheek and then moves for her lips and Emma lets her fingers do their desperate scrabbling at his shirt as she tugs him closer, seeking affirmation in the warmth of his mouth against hers, seeking the promise of his presence in his kiss.

She moans as he draws back and turns his head towards the sound of the door swinging shut on his dorm: his new home. She likes the look of his old one better. The faded and chipping paint on his door was more welcoming than the recently painted over stark white of the double doors of Middle House.

“Middle House is okay, I suppose,” Emma comments.

“It’s the best freshman dorm on campus,” Killian assures her, not for the first time.

“Practicing for your tour guide audition?” she teases with a gentle poke.

It draws that embarrassment in his expression, his mouth half open in aborted words, and his hand reaches for his neck. She meets the motion, catches his hand in hers. It’s a delicate battle with his inching fingers for her to thread them together, but when she manages it, he lights up, mouth curling up in delight.

“If I have to leave my home for somewhere else, I _suppose_ ” - he draws out the word teasingly - “this will do.”

He says ‘home’ like he’s not talking about his house, stepping even closer to her so that if she looked up, their foreheads would brush. His casual assurance of where his heart is should make Emma feel better, but it just makes her feel that much worse.

Turning away so that he doesn’t read the returning misery on her face, she says, “Help me get your crap out of my car.”

“No need for all that,” he chides.

She wrings out a smile at that and says, “I’ll push it from the other side. You grab the other end and then I’ll come help you get it to the elevator.” She breathes, and quietly adds, “Thank god for elevators.”

“I am counting my blessings,” Killian agrees.

She moves to the other side of the car and together they huff, puff, and shove until the container pops free with only minimal damage to her back and his arms. There’s no room for talking as they cart the container to the elevator, mainly because breathing is hard enough. By the time they reach his room, Emma feels pretty faint.

Emma leans her weight against his room door while he digs out his room key from the many pockets of his jacket. Across the hall, she can hear a girl arguing with her parents over a trip to Target. To the left, two guys are comparing schedules; they share Physics 111 and Spanish 1. To the right, some aide for first years is trekking down the hall, handing out packets that every new Haven student needs to survive their first week and the semester.

Beside her, Killian says, “Yea, got it, love.”

Emma straightens so he can open the door to his room. He lucked out in the sense that the school contacted him to switch rooms with the boy assigned this one because his claustrophobia made the single impossible for him to live in.

It isn’t _that_ small, but she has no idea what size a space a claustrophobic is capable of handling; there are probably no set limits on that, even.

His window is high enough that even when he opens it, it’s difficult for people to see in so he can get air without losing his privacy. That’s about the only thing Emma can say for it. It’s a typical campus dorm.

“This bed is even smaller than my one at home,” Killian says. Emma looks at him, already preparing herself for his inevitable teasing. “There’d be no excuse for us not to cuddle here, Emma. You’d have to endure my warm embrace or sleep on the floor.”

Emma stares at him blankly, watching his expression drop.

He groans, “That wasn’t a challenge. I’d never let you sleep on the floor. You’re not a dog.”

Emma counters this assertion with a bark. He laughs, stepping towards her in too self-assured a manner. Emma catches the glance at her mouth - was meant to given the way he smirks. With one hand, he tilts her chin up to look at him. With the other he pets her head.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his eyes back on her lips.

The spark of warmth in her belly is _exactly_ what she doesn’t need right now, so she shakes out of his grasp and reminds him, “We still have some stuff in the car, and we need to move it soon so other people can drop their stuff off.”

“Right,” he says.

She doesn’t have to think as they go back and forth, carting each box and bag up to his room and back. He offers to drive her car to the parking lot, but Emma has less than negative desire to endure the awkward wait outside his dorm, so she grabs the keys from his hand and tells him to wait here.

It takes her about ten minutes to get into an empty spot, having to wait for another family to pull out. Their freshman stands outside, waving at them as they go, and everyone in the car’s waves happily in return. All except their youngest daughter, probably no more than four years old, who’s crying words that Emma struggles not to make out, but she hears them anyway.

“Don’t go.”

Their departure takes three of those ten minutes. Her awful awareness of her breaths - inhale then exhale, inhale then exhale - takes the other seven minutes to calm down.

When she returns, Killian is a ball of pent up energy, hand reaching out to pull her back inside. They take the stairs up to his room because he thinks that they should leave the elevator to people with burdens. Emma makes no comment on that, just follows him up the stairs.

When he shuts them up in his room again, Emma leans against the provided desk and watches him plan out his setup with assessing eyes. She can just hear it - _he’ll keep his textbooks stacked next to his desk, most clothes in the containers beneath his bed, but he’ll hang his jackets in the small closet. But, dammit, he wishes he had his filing cabinet. Oh well, he’ll make do with a crate of hanging folders, labelled alphabetically of course, and maybe organized by subject? He’ll have to consider that one when he gets his first assignments. No hasty decisions there_ -

His look softens when he turns back to her. Smiling, he asks, “Where you think I should put -”

She’s moving before the question starts, her lips denying it a conclusion. This tactic is usually hit and miss with him because sometimes he _really_ wants to hear the sound of his own voice, and why should he deny himself that even for the pull of Emma’s mouth? Those times it takes a little more convincing for him to shut up, her fingers sweeping over the back of his neck, curling her fingers into the short hair back there and tugging a shocked gasp out of him, followed by a growl as he kisses her like he’s the one who had the idea in the first place.

This is not one of those times.

This is a kiss that starts at hungry, wanting, simple desire (for him, for him _always_ ) and slows into the cadence of a constant - inhale, then exhale; when she draws back to capture some hold over herself, he pushes forward to steal it away; when he gives her light pressure, lips barely brushing hers in slowed movements, she parts his lips with her tongue and pulls him back in.

They part only to come back together. They part, knowing the other will return to them.

Her thighs hit the back of his bed, and where that would usually mean her falling back, inviting him to fall with her, it just breaks the cadence.

Her breath whooshes out of her, and he shifts between her splayed legs, hands cupping her face. He kisses her forehead and murmurs, “I supposes this means no goodbye sex.”

She groans, glad for his humor, but he kisses her forehead again and she knows that humor isn’t easy. Emma grabs one of his hands and squeezes hard.

“That’s your incentive to come home,” she says.

His thumb caresses the dimple in her chin. She risks a look, finding exactly what she expects, a light smile that weighs too heavy on her heart and his eyes doing that thing they haven’t done in a while, like he’s trying to bore a hole into her with the intensity of his gaze. She used to think that he looked at her like that because he was trying to figure her out. But he _knows_ her so that can’t be it.

Maybe it’s because he does know her, that she needs that intensity when he says, “That is _not_ my incentive.” He leans down and kisses her forehead for the third time, whispering with a hint of humor, “That, sweetheart, is just an added bonus.”

She revels in the soft pressure of his mouth on her forehead, the warmth of his hand in hers, and his still gentle stroking of her face. Her revel doesn’t last as long as she wishes it would.

He straightens and says, “I can set up my room later. Let’s get lunch.”

From her sitting position, Emma doesn’t have to look him in the eye as she says, “I should actually probably get on the road if I want to not be driving at night.”

All of that is true, but she doesn’t think spelling out the rest of the truth will help this situation anymore. Once she leaves his room, there’ll be people running around, unpacking, making contacts, comparing schedules, and a myriad of things she won’t have to deal with for another year. Something she doesn’t want to deal with right now. She doesn’t want to hear about the start of their new lives, “College is a new beginning!”

She can’t think of beginnings because they always mean an end, and she cannot have this end.

Emma hates when people leave so, so much, but especially when it’s for the best. What could be best about leaving her behind? A stubborn part of her hisses, “Nothing,” and tells her to pull Killian back down for more kisses, enough that it’ll change his whole life and bring it back within her reach so she can drag him home and never let him go. The sensible part of her realizes that it isn’t a question of what’s best for her, but what’s best for him and _this_ is it.

They chat, sort of, as they walk to where she parked her car. She doesn’t recall anything either of them say. Emma sees that there’s a long line of cars trying to get out of the parking lot and she bites her lip. The traffic needs to start moving because she can’t stay here another minute.

She doesn’t want him to linger in watching her leave him behind because that sight would hurt her, and she really doesn’t want him to hurt.

She moves to open her car door, but is tugged about. Killian pushes her none too gently up against the door and she catches the distress on his face before she closes her eyes and pulls him in. This kiss isn’t of the same cadence, a faster tempo with sharp breaks; Emma gasps, almost opens her eyes to look at him, but she can’t so she bites at his bottom lip and swipes her tongue over it. He doesn’t seem capable of kissing her slowly; if they do, it’ll be too many kisses missed and they have to get in as many as possible if it’s to tide them over until they see each other again.

The kiss ends abruptly, Killian murmurs, “Sorry,” and Emma still doesn’t open her eyes, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that he instantly returns.

It’s a little better, then. It hurts, still, but she knows he doesn’t want it to hurt for either of them. He never wants to hurt her. So, Emma sucks up her desire to drag him home. She can’t allow herself to be hurt. To be anything but happy for him would be selfish.

She pulls away from him and says, “I think that makes up for the goodbye sex, right?”

He chuckles with too much emotion and says, “I’m going to agree with that, love, because I doubt any words to the contrary will change your mind.”

“I expected a stronger argument,” Emma says.

“You’ll get none from me,” he replies softly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, both understanding that this has to be the end of it for both their sakes.

Emma smiles, and says, “Well, the fact that you’re preventing me from opening my car door doesn’t really convince me of that.”

He grumbles and moves. She climbs into the bug and says, “Go set up your room. I expect a picture when it looks less like a prison cell.”

“Of course, milady,” Killian says with a sweeping bow.

She wants to hit him.

She wants to kiss him.

She smiles and closes the door.

It’s okay, really, until she gets her car on the highway. Then, it just sucks. She arrives home just before dark, and gets herself in the house, door locked behind her, lights turned on, before she flops down on the couch, fingers already writing out a text.

“I’m alive,” it says when she hits send because she’s too tired to make it casual, and lose the capitalization and the punctuation.

**6:52: in one piece?**

She pauses in her tapping. Every mile between them took a piece of her. It’s ridiculous but that’s how it feels.

She replies, “In one piece. The bug, too.”

**6:55: praise the gods. Alright, my love, I’ll text you tomorrow. My floor mate’s asked me to dinner and I want to get a feel of the place. I want you to get some sleep for me, alright?**

“Aye, aye, captain,” she sends off.

She sets her phone aside after, refuses to look at it. Turning on the TV, she puts on the Lifetime Movie Network and lets it lull her to sleep.


	20. TWIO - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma hates when people leave especially when it’s for the best. All Killian wants to do is stay because they, they are the best thing that’s ever happened to him. For them, leaving and being left behind is the worst, but sometimes the worst is what’s best, and all they want -
> 
> All they will ever want is the best.

The first few days are okay. It takes reality a while to sink in, get a feel of the place, and decide to stay. On the first day of school for teachers, it settles down within her, all comfortable and ready to put its feet up, relaxing with a cup of cocoa and rain pattering in the background; frankly it’s too much like how Emma’s spent the past few days.

The teachers always have to go in early to prepare for the new school year, setting up their classrooms, making final changes to the curriculum, and bemoaning the end of summer vacation and the beginning of hell for both them and the students.

Emma used to dread this day because it made the end of summer vacation real. Now, it makes the emptiness real. She has no reason to dread because high school is over, and she never has to go back. She’s completely free of Storybrooke High’s walls.

But so is everyone else.

There’s no one to call to waste away the last few days of freedom with. She has all the freedom in the world and no one to share it with. She readjusts that thought after a beat because her freedom comes with conditions and an expiration date. She deferred her enrollment at MMU until next fall so that she can figure out what to do with herself. In order to prove her commitment to her schooling and guarantee her enrollment for the next year, she needs to keep herself occupied in activities that she can put on a resume. That cuts out a lot of the easy time wasters, Netflix, On Demand, that video game Marian was always trying to get her to try…

Her mother always leaves at 5:30AM on the dot to be ready to open the school doors at 6AM, get updates from all the custodial and maintenance staff, and let in all the teachers who want to get their classrooms set up as soon as possible (and those who can’t wait to gossip about their vacations with people that can’t exactly run away.)

Emma doesn’t mean to be awake, but she walks down the stairs at the sound of frenzied feet moving over hardwood. Her dad doesn’t often sleep heavy, but he had a late night out looking for a hospital patient who, in the confusion of their illness, managed to leave the hospital in nothing but an open-backed hospital gown and those hospital socks that Ruby used to collect because “Free warm socks, Emma! Free!” She knows he’d want to be awake to wish her mother a good start of the school year, but she can hear him snoring. He’s been doing it a lot more lately. Old age, her logic says. Too many run-ins with Leroy, her logic _also_ says.

“Heading out?” Emma asks, voice scratchy with sleep - and perhaps with disuse, too. Besides conversations with her parents, this past week has been pretty empty of conversation. She had a quick call from all her friends once they’d settled at their schools, a longer one with Tink, Lance, and Gwen who told her that she could _still_ change her mind and join them (“Pretty please?”), and not nearly long enough call with Killian. All in all, she’s probably talked about five hours in the past week.

Her mother near slips as she turns to face Emma, thermos clutched in one hand, purse, backpack, and keys in the other. She looks frazzled already, but her excitement is palpable. She lets out a heavy sigh borne of her heavy load and smiles.

“Came to wish me a good school year since the Sheriff has failed in his duty?” she nods at the ceiling and the snores spilling through it.

“That’s what a good deputy does, picks up the slack,” Emma says.

It’s easy for a moment, and then her mother’s smile softens, a little pained in a reminder that Emma can tell her anything, _anything_ she wants.

Emma _does_ want but –

“You don’t have to start your work today but if you’re looking for something to do, we’d be more than happy to have you.”

She’s trying to be as delicate as possible. She hasn’t even yet asked Emma about her friends besides “Did they tell you how they’re settling in?” It’s hard for her mother not to push, but she’s trying, so Emma replies, “I’ll think about it. See how my schedule looks.”

“Oh boy. Have your secretary pencil me in anytime you’re free,” her mother teases.

Emma smiles and glances at the stove clock. 5:29.

“Time to herd you out the door. Have everything? School keys? House keys? Car keys?”

“I hope so!” her mother says.

Emma looks at the shoes grouped by the front door and slips into her flip-flops. She holds the door open for her mother to go out, and then opens her car door as well.

“Thank you, sweetie. I love you. Call me if you need anything,” her mother says.

“Love you, too.”

She waves her mother out of the driveway and turns back to the house. The house looks so safe and inviting right now. In there, it’s easier to push aside reality. She’s gone for days without texting her friends. Weekends where she just holed up in her bedroom and unwound whatever tension had built up in her that week. Inside the house, their absence isn’t as noticeable, so she walks back inside.

But by the time her father wakes up, Emma realizes that she can no longer hide from reality in the house. By the time her father leaves, Emma’s showered, dressed and ready to work.

She’s at the school at 9:00AM on the dot, tells herself it’ll be the start of her own particular class schedule, and it almost (but still definitely doesn’t) feel like she never left

-

Volunteering at the high school doesn’t take up nearly enough of her time, and spending time around her former teachers never had any charm to lose and just makes her uncomfortable if it goes on for longer than three hours.

She starts to fill in her days with time spent at the Sheriff’s station. Her father appreciates having her there, and Graham’s easy conversation is distracting - but only for so long.

After that, it’s anything goes, and as far as anything goes, it usually means she finds herself wandering Storybrooke, trying to think of anything else she can do. This is exactly what she wanted, the time to figure out her future, but she’s already struggling to figure out what to do in the short term of tomorrow, let alone the long term of next fall.

But it also feels like nothing she ever asked for. It’s too much time.

It’s on a whim (of absolute desperation) that she wanders into the library. She’s been in every other building in Storybrooke, and this is pretty much the only one she doesn’t think anyone will give her weird looks for lingering in. It’s a library, they should expect people to spend too many hours in there, right? Right?

She sure as hell hopes so because if not, she’s screwed.

Emma hasn’t actually been in a library since middle school. Belle’s library doesn’t count because, well, it was Belle’s library. Most days she forgot it even was a library, and then someone would wander in and it was like an alien invasion. Only the most oblivious of people would linger longer than the time needed to get whatever book they came to get, and the whole time Emma would stare at them, hoping they’d “ET go home” their way out of there.

She smiles at the librarian when she pokes her head up to see who entered. The librarian - one of the nuns, possibly; she’s seen her approach Leroy once or twice without getting her head torn off - goes back to her work, leaving Emma to attend to whatever she came in there to do.

Which is anyone’s guess - make a millionaire out of the one who can because phone a friend’s out of the question when she isn’t sure they’ll even have the time to pick up let alone navigate the troubles of her life; the computer doesn’t even have any options to choose from, let alone eliminate. So she’s here, ready to ask the audience, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

This would be easier if her audience didn’t consist of just books.

She gnaws at her bottom lip and moves towards the fantasy section. She’s living in a fairytale already if she thinks she’ll find any help here, might as well jump ship to a fantasy not of her own creation.

“Hey,” a voice calls from the right, and she near jumps out of her skin.

Emma turns to see Jefferson waving her over. It’s a surprise - she assumed everyone had left - but she realizes it shouldn’t be. She knew that he and Rose had to adjust their college plans to take care of Grace, but still she didn’t exactly expect them to stay in town. It isn’t Storybrooke’s fault that it’s such a small community that opportunity for growth is hard to come by, but it is a failing that has most everyone leaving. Sure, most return, but it’s usually only when they’re ready to raise their kids and have secured work not so far out of town that they’re locked into Storybrooke’s small town life.

Emma really expected that everyone would leave her behind. It’s terrible, really, her self-centered focus.

It feels good to open her eyes to something outside of that.

She and Jefferson aren’t exactly friends like they were before, but they’ve been much friendlier since senior year, so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable taking the seat across from him. He has papers spread out before him. She looks in interest at the art reference book beside him, spine cracked onto a page about motion, from what she can see.

“Working on your art?” Emma asks.

Jefferson smiles. It’s always annoyed her about him that he doesn’t need to roll his eyes to express his disbelief at the stupidity of the world around him. Her stupidity, to be exact. Emma pouts, choosing not to start a fight. She didn’t sit down for that, anyway, and it’s nice not to feel like she needs to run away from what her life is right now. Emma doesn’t want to give him a reason to chase her out.

He smiles at her silence, this time a smile that doesn’t judge her very existence.

“Yeah, I’m still going to art school, definitely going into graphic design because you can do so much more with that degree like despite what people say about the uselessness of art degrees, you know, it isn’t _so_ useless.”

Emma isn’t sure why she says it - “You’re not useless” - until his expression brightens and he makes that face that he made when he showed her his recreation of Grace’s ultrasound and at the baby shower when he and Rose took that picture, just the two of them.

It brightens Emma, too.

He goes on to say, “I don’t have the money to do that yet, but I’m keeping occupied” - he gives her that same judgmental smile - “ _Obviously._ ”

Quickly, he follows that up with, “When I have the time between taking care of Grace and letting Rose complete her studies, I go to this art class. Well, it’s more like a club? But a class at the same time? Like you don’t have to go all the time unless you fail or get kicked out, but when you go, Mrs. Fitzherbert is always there to help by giving you opinions, criticism and guidance. It is super chill, and it makes me feel like I’m doing something productive. Moving forward even when I feel like I’m not.”

Emma looks away because he’s articulated her feelings in a way that she can’t voice except in her head, and she _can’t_ voice them except in her head. Saying it aloud would be - it _is_ her reality, but she doesn’t want it to be the reality that anyone sees.

Killian would say something about her putting her guard up, but he wouldn’t shake his head in disappointment. He’d understand. Still, she won’t tell him. It wouldn’t be fair to make him feel guilty for something he has no control over.

“Hey,” Jefferson says to her new silence, “You used to sketch, right? Why don’t you join us? It could be fun!”

She laughs at that, a little dark-humored because she has taken up sketching again, but she doesn’t think she’s brave enough to attempt it without Killian at her side, writing stories in the corners of her sketches, ruining them in the best way possible.

“Thanks but no thanks. I’m really bad at taking criticism, and I think Mrs. Fitzherbert might make me want to curl up in a ball and die.”

His “Are you stupid?” smile returns full force, but this time with a shake of his head.

“The fact that you think that is why you should come. If only to see why Mrs. Fitzherbert could never make anyone want to do that.”

“Hmm,” Emma says in a concession to nothing.

She manages a smile, though, at his ability to navigate these major changes in his life. It’s great to see him have a plan that isn’t the traditional, and it gives her hope. A plan isn’t impossible. The future isn’t _that_ far out of reach.

On a spur of the moment thought, Emma offers, “I could do some babysitting, though. Give you more opportunities to go there.”

His eyebrows fly into his hairline, complete and utter surprise on his face.

Emma’s a little surprised at herself, to be honest, not because she offered, but because she means it wholeheartedly.

“Seriously?”

She shrugs. “I’ve taken care of wild animals. How hard can a baby be? Even one with your genes.”

He doesn’t even frown at the insult, just laughs and laughs, almost on the manic, and Emma looks around, expecting the librarian to expel them.

Only the books greet his laughter.

“Okay,” he says, dragging out the word until it sounds unending. “I’ll hit you up if I want to see you reevaluate your entire life, Ems.”

She narrows her eyes at the nickname. Like, Jefferson can’t possibly know about Neal, about the way he’d call her that and it would make her feel _good_ , until all it did was make her feel empty. She’s Emma, not Ems, and she spent a long time convincing herself of this. Ems was a naive idiot. Emma is a much smarter idiot.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, trying not to sound bitter.

“I’m gonna tell Grace that Auntie Ems says ‘Hi’ and is super ready to change her stinky diaper,” Jefferson says.

And just like that, Emma actually feels okay with the name. It’s funny how a cute baby makes you happy about the things that made you feel like shit.

“Alright, _Jeff_ ,” she says.

He takes no offense at the nickname, actually grins at it, and Emma looks at the papers spread out before him, the art book, and realizes an exit when it opens itself.

“See you later,” he says when she gets up from the chair.

She waves at him, smile firmly in place until she leaves the library and feels her phone vibrate in her pocket, once, twice, three, four - she stops counting and slips it out of her pocket.

It’s a struggle to be super hopeful about who all the texts are coming from and then to have that hope realized, when it’s followed by the painful yearning that Killian’s contact always brings.

There’s such a rush to the six essay long texts that Emma takes a few minutes to digest it all, nearly walking into a pole while she’s reading it.

Jefferson has plans, but Killian has _plans_.

He’s detailed literally the exact path he needs to take to get his degree, and the possibility of being able to complete a dual degree if he’s able to afford a fifth year, and that all depends on the job he secures outside of school and how he manages his money - and it’ll be easier if he gets these scholarships, and if he sticks with the rowing team, he’ll be able to secure some money from that as well and -

**3:16: i can handle it, i think**

**3:16: no i definitely can. this can’t be harder than getting you to love me, and i managed that ;)**

Emma stops fully to process that one, harder to digest than the minutiae of his degree plans. It’s so hard to swallow down that painful yearning, her heart lurching out of her chest, and she actually really wants it gone, at least for this moment because right now it just _hurts_.

Two responding texts lie at her fingertips:

“i wish it wasn’t so hard to love you so far away”

Or

“somehow ;)”

Is it obvious the one she sends? Would Jefferson give her that smile - “How stupid can you get?” Isn’t it obvious?

“somehow ;)” she types, and somehow manages to keep herself from biting through her lip.

-

“i miss you,” he texts.

He texts that like it’s his exhale, he needs to say it as much as it’s impossible for him not to, really. Killian peppers it throughout their conversations so it reads as less the heartache that he feels. It’s just a simple statement, a gentle teasing to every remark she sends him that makes him want to have her right there beside him. It’s easy to text it as often as he feels it because it’s difficult to decipher feelings over texts, especially if he fills said texts with all the tales of his day, his plans, and all that stuff that doesn’t matter as much as her (even though he wants it to matter in the way that it needs to so he can have what he wants so desperately to have right now: Emma, right there beside him.)

It’s difficult to hide that when he has her voice in his ear and his own trying not to rattle at every breath he can hear and that he can’t feel. He can’t tell her he misses her. He can’t lest she realize how much he feels it, deep in his bones, in every beat of his heart. Killian doesn’t want her to think that he’s struggling. He can’t burden Emma with that or make her feel guilty for something she has no control over.

Killian doesn’t want to ever be a burden. He’s working too hard to be her strength to screw it up now. The texts he sent her about his school path are emblazoned on a neatly typed list, complete with checkboxes to cross off when he accomplishes the goal. There’s wiggle room, of course, for revisions, but he has a whole notebook for little adjustments. This is the overview. This is the path he needs to walk to end up where he always wants to be: with Emma.

He sweats a little at his plans, perhaps scratches at his neck as well and swallows tightly even when there’s no one around to see. Killian is _so_ certain in them, but he can’t just drop them on her right now. He wants to see her come into them on her own time, to see the future that he sees.

Killian isn’t looking for that white picket fence, two kids and a dog, perfect happy ending, but he is. Looking for a happy ending, that is. Or, more so, a happily ever after, not as shut as an ending, but ongoing.

From now until -

_Forever_.

Thankfully, he’s self-aware enough to realize how much he sounds like he’s been spending far too much time with his nose stuck in his book, writing a story growing more fantastical with every word.

So, he says nothing, and lets her voice keep him rooted in the present rather than that fantastical future. First, Chemistry, Physics, intro to CompSci, Modernism and Greek (bloody hell no to French, and Emma’s voice adding, “Hell fucking _no_ ” for emphasis.)

Happily ever after, well, _after_.

The party that he gets dragged to during his third weekend isn’t exactly straying from his path, so he goes without feeling bad about it - mainly because Emma’s probably asleep anyway (he wasn’t wrong about her being a 11PM, sleep through her alarm kind of person, as much as most of their nights went for far longer than that.)

The party is a party, and maybe he’d be more like the other freshmen, excited to be free of high school’s restraints if he wasn’t so used to Victor’s house parties. This one - and the others that he passes through, one floor to another throwing their own (and it’s as if they coordinated it because there are no two floors serving the same cheap beer and vodka) - is just like Victor’s except on a grander scale. He doesn’t know everyone’s name and quirks, who shouldn’t have more than one drink and who’s going to stink of weed before the night is through. So, it has that going for it. It’s a surprise to find one of his floor mate’s hooking up with the third row sleeper in his CompSci class. Not so much a surprise to find his across the hall neighbor, Will Scarlet, drunkenly hitting on the blonde sophomore who’s looking at him like he’s a particularly annoying bug while leaning into him anyway.

What really surprises him is how hard it is for him to relax into the environment. He’s used to this, and he’s friendly, likable (despite what Ruby would insist and then deny the next day), so it isn’t that he’s uncomfortable and can’t make himself at home with the strangers around him. It just feels like he should be doing something else. Not studying or anything like that because he _does_ need to relax, and he isn’t looking at his textbooks until Sunday. But something else.

He leaves Anton with Jack, though he asks him whether he’d like to come with because Jack doesn’t seem...anything like Anton, but maybe there’s hidden qualities to the both of them that he hasn’t seen yet. Maybe Anton has a dark streak, or maybe Jack isn’t as malicious as she appears.

Still, Anton says, “I’ll meet up with you later!” so Killian goes, unsure of where Anton will meet up with him because he has no idea where he’s going. It’s almost one in the morning so he could just go back to his dorm and attempt to sleep. Middle House is the nicest dorm on campus, and it strictly keeps it that way, no parties and enforced quiet after 11PM even on the weekends.

His feet take him elsewhere however. He finds himself trekking towards the Art buildings. The Art Library is still open, but dimly lit so there are students practically drawing by moonlight within its glass walls.

And then there’s the singing.

Just one voice, though it takes him a moment to realize it because it echoes like a chorus, and it’s so beautiful and well-practiced that it sounds like a song trained to be performed rather than what it is - a girl seated on the steps overlooking the Wishing Well, which is technically more of a pool than a well, but it has a bucket for aesthetic reasons.

She turns when she hears him approach, dark hair whipping the breeze. His appearance halts her song, and he’s about to offer up an apology for disturbing her when she says, “Hey! You’re in my Modernism class. Come sit with me.”

There’s a power in her voice that drags him to her even though he has to admit that he doesn’t remember her being in the class at all.

He’s terrible.

And it’s written all over his face because she laughs and says, “I know I missed the introduction class because I miraculously was bumped off the waiting list by a kind junior who _loathes_ modernism and had no idea what they were on when they signed up for it. So, don’t feel bad for not remembering me.”

Killian sits down beside her, and says, “I still feel bad.”

It makes her laugh and say, “Well in that case, tell me how you introduced yourself in class and I’ll do the same.”

He winces as he remembers but he said it in front of the whole class and no one’s acted on his obvious idiocy so far so saying it again can’t hurt (too much.)

“Killian Jones, freshman, and I - I have no clue what modernism even is, so that’s what I’m hoping to learn from this course?”

She stares at him and doesn’t laugh, which he can only translate to her holding it back.

Eventually she says, “Well, I’m Ursula Neptune, freshman as well, and” - she pokes her thumb out at him - “what he said. Double what he said because I don’t have my books yet either.”

She finally laughs at that, as does he. Her laughter sounds just like her voice, musical, and it’s simply nice to hear rather than the pounding of whatever music, or something else, he left behind at the parties. Which brings him to another question -

“Why are you out here instead of in there?” he asks, pointing towards the Twisted Forest (actually just named Forest House, but its reputation honored it with that title, and it certainly is living up to it tonight.)

“I’m honestly not sure? It doesn’t feel right.”

He nods in understanding of the feeling, although he still doesn’t understand why this is their shared mood.

She sweeps her dark hair over her neck, peering at him in a way that is uncomfortably deep. Her lips are parted, her brown eyes fixated on him, and they’re close on the steps, enough that she could pull him in easily and –

“Is this a seduction?”

Her eyes widen and she looks at him like he’s sprouted heads.

“A ‘what?’”

He can’t muster up an explanation without his ears burning, and the discomfort making him want to deflect - but his usual deflection is to flirt, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t want this situation to be: flirtation.

Upon realization, she jerks back and exclaims, “Oh! Oh my god, no!”

His first response is a grumbled, “I didn’t intend for you to be so against the idea,” and his second is a relieved, “But I’m glad that this isn’t that.”

Her disbelief eases and she looks something akin to chagrined, frowning at her knees as she says, “Sorry. I really wasn’t trying to seem that way. I keep failing at that.” She frowns deeper. “My roommate Mal is my only friend because everyone else I try to befriend thinks I’m trying to, as you said, seduce them. I don’t know what to do because I’ve had eighteen years of shaping myself into who I am, and I can’t change that overnight. I can’t just” - she reaches for the words with her hands, sighing and dropping them back down to her lap - “stop being seductive?”

“Everyone?” he asks.

“ _Everyone_ ,” she looks at him and confirms.

He tries not to smile at that, so he directs said smile into something more comforting. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m only in the market for friends at the moment.” He looks out across the water of the pool and imagines Emma sitting beside him. She’d love this, she really would. “For every moment.”

He looks to Ursula again whose gaze is curious, but instead of asking about that, she says, “So, am I the right price?”

Confused, he stares at her.

Hurriedly, she explains, “For a friend. Am I the right price for you?” She smiles again, and leans in, and yeah, he can see why everyone thinks she’s flirting with them because the genuine interest in her gaze is usually a sign of desire of the romantic kind. He’ll hate to have to break it to her that people just aren’t as interested in each other as she is in them. Human beings are social creatures, but that sociability usually doesn’t extend so deep. She’s a rare person, certainly.

She bats her eyelashes - okay, he’s really going to have to tell her what not to do if she’s going to make just friends - and says, “I come for free. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” he presses, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, you’ll have to come to my performances.”

“Performances?”

“I’m not in the music program, but there are plenty of groups on campus that don’t require that to join, and they do a lot of performances here and other places, so you might have to drive out wherever I go to see me sing.”

“Wherever might you go?”

She shrugs, and says, “Well, I haven’t joined a group so…” Trailing off, she smiles apologetically.

“You have no idea what you’re inviting me to?” he finishes for her.

She lets out a squeal of delight and says, “Of course not. But if you’re considering where I’ll invite you to, that must mean you’ve decided to be my friend.”

“Of course.”

She squeals again, throwing her arm around him and starts singing that she “could tell that we were gonna be friends.”

It feels right, this, listening to Ursula sing more songs about friendship than could possibly exist. It’s something that he can understand now, that he couldn’t find at that party, this belonging that makes him feel like he’s finally grounded into this new life.

It’s easier then, to get through his classes, join the study groups and the clubs and the floor mates going shopping for the necessities: pop tarts, family size bags of chips, microwave ramen, and toothbrushes. Rowing is a welcome change from rugby. There’s just something undesirable about getting his head knocked around when he’s trying to keep it as clear as possible.

Although all the space he makes are just vacancies to fill with thoughts of Emma. A lot of the time he wants to call her, but it’s never appropriate: he’s on his way to class and he doesn’t have the necessary hour he needs to actually get his fill of her voice until the next time they speak; it’s late and he knows she gets up early to go work with her mother;

Or it’s mid-afternoon on a Sunday where both their schedules are completely free for hours and he can skype her while he completes his assignments, studying out of the question entirely.

“I still don’t understand the application of this theorem,” he moans.

He looks at her on the screen, her expression flashing too fast for him to see anything but the entertaining smile.

“Idiot, you know I can’t help you with this. Math is my arch-nemesis,” she says.

“But you won that last battle,” Killian points out.

She, in fact, did, going up 100 points in the SAT math section on her second go at it. Her own success, although she wouldn’t deny that he played a hand in it. She improved his math grade, too, so it was mutually beneficial.

“I’d like to end that war on a high note,” Emma says. She heaves a sigh, shaking her head at him, the few blonde strands not held back by her ponytail blowing forward at her exhale. “So, idiot, go find someone who can help so you can get your homework done on time.”

“That really isn’t what I want. Anton’s help doesn’t compare to yours” - He tries not to sound so wistful, smiles - “It really isn’t the same without having you here to do it with me.”

She tilts her head, a blink of her eyes that isn’t quite an eye roll but close enough, and a stretch of her lips that isn’t quite a smile either, the clearest “I know what you did there, you’re so annoying, with your stupid flirting” - “Wooing” - “Whoo-hoo,” since they had that conversation.

Which just isn’t fair because there was not a hint of innuendo intended. He was simply pining for her company. He supposes that’s better than her hearing the heartache that neither of them can do anything about (that he’s supposed to have come to terms with already, bloody hell.)

But it deflects to something he’d rather not think about. Actively throwing himself into other things rather than think about. His single offers him some privacy to think about Emma in that way, but it just isn’t the same. It’s suffering because truly he is suffering with all the pent up sexual frustration that mounts daily.

This helps however, being able to see her humored acceptance of his inability to not flirt wildly when he sees her. Seeing her and hearing her makes it easier to unwind that knot of frustration than when he’s all alone, envisioning her naked in his bed.

“Come on, Killian, you have work to do. So tell me you love me and you’ll talk to me later so I can let you get back to it,” she says.

He presses closer to the screen and it definitely isn’t the same as actually leaning over her and quietly asking, “So if I don’t tell you that, you’ll stay with me longer?”

“Killian,” she whines.

Pathetic. It’s pathetic how desperately he wants to insist on that course of action even when he knows he can’t.

But Emma wants him to do well, and he hasn’t yet learned (or desired to learn) how to not give her what she wants, so he presses a kiss to his fingers and his fingers to the screen.

“I love you and I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart.”

Her words sound clipped when she says, “Love you, too. Later gator,” and quickly ends the call. It leaves him feeling flustered and bereft, but his phone vibrates a moment later.

**1:13: saw the time, supposed to meet dad for some patrolling, gotta rush, you go get lunch for the energy ok? dont let math kill you**

He smiles at that, relieved so deeply that the knot unravels, the one tangling his heartstrings. Honestly, he’d completely forgotten about eating in the two hours they’d been talking - dissecting Kafka’s “The Castle” for his short analysis and sharing updates from their friends. He’s going to have to carve out some time to talk to Tink because he’s good at winding her down, and it sounds like she needs it right now, and not the bottle of wine she’s insisting Victor send her.

Victor, who calls all his classmates weak, the curriculum weak, and himself weak for the concessions he’s making to his father to train as hard as the ROTC contingent on campus. Victor, who sounds happier than he ever has, which is more worrying than anything he’s ever done.

Yeah, Killian carves out time to talk to her - and Gwen and Lance because they’re a package deal now, who can’t wait for Emma to join said package, just the Gryffindor they need for a proper representation of the houses.

The time he carves out gets slimmer as the days go by in between the increasing rigor of his classes, his team obligations, and balancing the work with the leisure - Ursula, Mal, Anton, Will, a weird group that doesn’t quite work but tries (mostly.)

He texts Emma, but their calls always seem to be interrupted or one of them is distracted. It sucks, but he still manages to infuse his “I love you” with everything that he feels. The only thing that keeps him going through the shittier days is flipping open his diary (which one day will join the worthy few lining Ruby’s bookshelf) and seeing his list.

A ‘To Do’ list only possible because of the greatest blessing to ever be handed to him, Emma’s carelessness with her belongings and Ruby’s complete disregard for Emma’s sanity.

He hopes his sharing of it will be more deliberate than hers, but just as fruitful - he and Emma and that Happily Ever After, which is silly, cheesy, and worse insults for his desire that he can’t think of but he can always go to Emma, Ruby, Tink for help if necessary.

It’s awful, really, but Emma expects it out of him anyway so it can’t be all that bad a thought.

No, not bad at all.


End file.
